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PUBLISHED    BY 

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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/englishlittextOOkellrich 


^^^. 


Text-Boqk 


English  Literature, 

Wit/i  Copious  Extracts  from  the  Leading  Autfiors, 
English  and  American^ 


With    Full   Instructions  as  to  the  Method   in   which   these  are 
TO  BE  Studied, 


ADAPTED  FOR  USE  IN  COLLEGES,  HIGH  SCHOOLS  AND 

ACADEMIES, 


BRAINERD    KELLOGG,    A.M., 

Professor  of  the  English  Language  ana  Literature  in  the  Brooklyn   Collegiate 

and  Polytechnic  Institute,  Author  of  a  ^'  Text-Book  on  Rhetoric,'"  and  one  of 

the  Authors  of  Reed  &*  Kellogg' s  "  Graded  Lessons  in  English^'*  aftd 

*'  Higher  Lessons  in  English." 


istew  york: 
Clark   &    Maynard,    Publishers, 

734   Bboadway. 

1883. 


OOFTBIGHT,  1882,  BY  BPAINERD  KELLOGG. 


IN  MEMOWAW 


PREFACE." '"■ 


May  we  not  hope  and  expect  that  our  children  are  to  be 
taught  English  literature  better  than  their  parents  were  ?  The 
intelligent  teacher  is  now  brushing  aside  the  text-book  that 
keeps  pupil  and  authors  apart,  and  he  and  they  are  allowed 
to  meet  face  to  face.  How  we  could  ever  have  thought  that 
the  study  of  what  some  one  had  said  about  literature  or  its 
authors  was  a  study  of  literature  itself  excites  our  wonder 
now;  we  wonder  that  as  pupils  we  did  not  detect  the  usurp- 
er, and  rise  against  him  in  indignant  revolt.  Some  of  us 
have  learned — what  our  teachers  did  not  seem  to  know — that 
grievous  wrong  is  done  a  pupil  in  furnishing  him  a  mass  of 
second-hand  knowledge  concerning  authors,  and  in  substi- 
tuting the  study  of  this  mass  for  the  study  of  the  authors  them- 
selves. 

Indeed,  is  it  not  to  utter  an  educational  truism  now  to  say 
that  no  greater  harm  can  be  inflicted  upon  a  pupil  in  any 
study  than  doing  for  him  in  it  what  he  can  do  for  himself? 
It  takes  from  him  the  keen  relish  of  it  which  the  discovery  of 
a  fact  or  the  conquest  of  a  principle  gives  it ;  it  robs  him 
of  the  pleasure  which  such  conquest  or  discovery  yields ;  it 
deprives  him  of  the  inestimable  discipline  which  such  labor 
compels;  and  it  weakens  his  hold  upon  the  fact  or  the  princi- 
ple, which  slips  from  a  grasp  that  would  have  been  tenacious 
had  he  made  the  attainment  unaided.  Better  far  than  the 
whole  prepared  for  him  and  communicated  to  him  by  text- 
book or  teacher  would  be  a  half  or  a  tenth  of  it  found  out 

925172 


Preface. 


by  himself — better  that  among  his  possessions,  independently 
acquired,  there  should  be  some  error  than  that  through  fear 
of  error  he  should  be  lj:ept  from  making  any  self -relying  effort. 
*  jKu.^  we  hasv'e  Uf)%  gaj^d,  and  do  not  say,  that  a  text-book  in 
English,  lit^ratur^  is  n-gt  needed  by  the  pupil ;  we  say  only 
Ht|i^t;it'5h9nl'(i  -not  ,-aiisunie  functions  which  do  not  belong  to 
it.  A  text-book,  we  think,  is  needed.  It  is  needed  to  furnish 
the  pupil  that  which  he  cannot  help  himself  to.  It  may  group 
the  authors  so  that  their  places  in  the  line  and  their  relations 
to  each  other  can  be  seen  by  the  pupil ;  it  may  throw  light 
upon  the  authors'  times  and  surroundings,  and  note  the  great 
influences  at  work  helping  to  make  their  writings  what  they 
are ;  it  may  point  out  such  of  these  as  should  be  studied,  and 
may  present  extracts  from  them  full  of  the  author's  real 
flavor ;  it  may  teach  the  pupil  how  these  are  to  be  studied, 
soliciting  and  exacting  his  judgment  at  every  step  of  the  way 
which  leads  from  the  author's  diction  up  through  his  style 
and  thought  to  the  author  himself ;  it  may  present  critical  esti- 
mates of  the  leading  writers,  by  those  competent  to  make  them, 
provided  it  requires  the  pupil  to  accept  these  judgments  only 
as  he  finds  them  borne  out  by  the  passages  quoted  or  the 
writings  referred  to  ; — in  all  these  ways  and  in  other  ways  it 
may  place  the  pupil  on  the  best  possible  footing  with 
those  whose  acquaintance  it  is  his  business  as  well  as  his 
pleasure  to  make.  Such  functions  as  these,  discharged  by  a 
text-book,  would  justify  its  use ;  and  such  a  text-book  we 
have  tried  to  make  the  one  we  now  present. 

The  Primer  of  English  Literature  by  Stopford  Brooke  has 
been  chosen  as  the  basis,  or  nucleus,  of  it,  it  being  admirably 
adapted  for  our  purpose.  The  excellence  of  the  Primer  is  our 
only  apology  for  its  appropriation.  Great  liberties  have  been 
taken  with  the  text.  Many  passages  have  been  eliminated 
— specially  those  criticised  by  Matthew  Arnold  in  his  review 
of  the  work.  The  Primer  has  been  rearranged  to  suit  our 
purpose,  and  has  been  cut  up  into  Lessons.     All  the  matter 


Preface, 


taken  from  Mr.  Brooke  has  been  enclosed  in  quotation  marks. 
TVe  have  added  a  Biographical  and  Topical  Index,  which 
contains  much  valuable  information  concerning  authors  that 
is  not  to  be  found  in  the  body  of  the  work. 

The  Eight  Periods  in  which  Mr.  Brooke  places  English 
literature,  and  into  which  it  seems  naturally  to  fall,  have, 
with  slight  changes,  been  retained.  Each  Period  is  preceded 
by  a  Lesson  containing  a  brief  resume  of  the  great  historical 
events  that  have  had  somewhat  to  do  in  shaping  or  in  coloring 
the  literature  of  that  Period.  The  pupil,  it  is  hoped,  will  be 
able  to  see  the  better  in  the  light  thus  shed. 

We  have  inserted  short  estimates  of  the  leading  authors, 
made  by  the  best  English  and  American  critics.  These 
criticisms  are  to  be  used  as  indicated  above,  and  as  pointed 
out  in  the  Introductory  Lesson.  They  are  not  to  take  the 
place  of  the  pupil's  work,  but  are  themselves  to  be  judged 
by  him,  and  ratified  or  amended  according  to  his  findings 
in  the  study  of  the  authors  themselves. 

Extracts,  as  many  and  as  ample  as  the  limits  of  a  text-book 
would  allow,  have  been  made  from  the  principal  writers  of 
each  Period.  We  have  tried  to  find  such  as  contain  the 
characteristic  traits  of  their  authors  both  in  thought  and  in 
expression.  But  few  of  these  extracts  have,  so  far  as  we 
know,  ever  seen  the  light  in  books  of  selections — anthologies 
of  poetry  or  prose.  IN  one  of  them,  we  may  say,  have  been 
worn  threadbare  by  use,  or  nave  lost  their  freshness  by  tne 
pupiFs  familiarity  with  them  in  school-readers.  There  is 
less  need  than  formerly  of  such  extracts,  now  that  short 
classics,  full  of  good  things  from  the  best  authors,  and 
admirably  annotated,  can  be  easily  and  cheaply  procured.  We 
heartily  commend  for  use  in  the  class-room  the  list  of  short 
English  Classics,  already  quite  extensive,  published  by  Clark 
&  Maynard,  and  the  list  entitled  American  Classics  for 
Schools,  issued  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. ,  Boston. 

We  have  prepared  a  Bibliography  for  the  most  eminent 


6  Preface. 


authors.  This  will  be  of  service  to  such  teachers  and  pupils 
as  have  access  to  public  libraries,  and  who  care  to  correct 
or  supplement  their  knowledge  by  reading  the  opinions  of 
others.  We  had  for  a  long  time  been  making  these  Bib- 
liographies, when  we  found  the  work  already  largely  done  for 
us  in  the  catalogue  of  the  Brooklyn  Library.  Since  then  the 
catalogue  has  been  freely  used.  It  will  be  seen  that  the 
greater  part  of  the  references  are  to  Magazine  articles,  and 
that  these  are  recent.  Whatever  may  be  claimed  for  the 
critics  of  the  generations  gone,  it  will  be  allowed  that  never 
has  criticism  been  more  discriminating,  delicate,  just,  and 
appreciative  than  it  is  now. 

In  the  Introductory  Lesson  we  have  indicated  how  we  wish 
the  book  to  be  studied.  The  method  there  detailed  has 
grown  up  out  of  a  long  experience  wdth  classes  in  literature. 
It  is  that,  also,  up  to  which  the  work  in  Eeed  and  Kellogg's 
Grammars  and  in  Kellogg's  Rhetoric  has  led  the  pupil;  it 
completes  such  work,  and  applies  it  to  the  study  of  authors. 
We  beg  teachei's  to  examine  the  method  carefully,  and  test  it 
by  trial  before  rejecting  it. 

We  wish  here  to  express  our  grateful  acknowledgments  to 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  to  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
and  to  Messrs.  Appleton  &  Co.  for  the  generous  use  they  have 
allowed  us  of  the  sterling  works  published  by  them.  It  is 
through  their  kindness  that  we  have  been  enabled  to  supple- 
ment our  historical  account  and  critical  estimate  of  Amei'ican 
literature  with  more  than  sixty  pages  of  choice  extracts  from 
the  best  American  authors. 
Polytechnic  Institute,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 


CONTENTS. 


Period  I. 


Periods  of  English  Literature.  12 

Requisites  for  the  Study 13 

The  Text-Book... 14 

I.  Classification 15 

II.  Diction 16 

III.  Sentences 16 

^  n.  Perspicuity 16 

ils.  Imagery 16 

^JS.  Energy 16 

^  I  4  and  5.  Wit,  Pathos. .  17 

^  [6.  Elegance 17 

Thought 17 

Feeling 17 

1.  Rhythm 18 

2.  Metre 18 

3.  Rhyme 18 

Further  Remarks 18 


V. 
VI. 


The  Celts— the  Roman   Con- 
quest   20 

Anglo-Saxons — the  Conquest.  21 

Danish  Invasions 21 

The  English  Tongue 23 

f  How  Written 24 

Beowulf 24 

Csedmon 26 

Adhelm  and  Cynewulf  ...  28 

Vercelli  and  Exeter  Book.  28 

^  ( Finnesburg 29 


SI 


5  -g  \  Brunanburgh 30 

"2  [Maldon 30 

TBaeda 31 

LElfred 32 


P^  s£  I  ^Ifricand  Eng.  Chron- 
icle  


'H' 


34 


Period  II. 


People  at  and  after  the  Conquest  36 
Scotland,   France,  and    Gun- 
powder   36 

Effect  of  the  Conquest  upon 

the  Language 37 

Religious  Poetry — Ormin  and 

Langland 39 

Story-   ( Layamon  and  Others  43 

Poet^  I  John  Gower 45 


English  Lyrics 46 

History — Chroniclers 48 

Mandeville  and  Wyclif 49 

The  King's  English 51 

fHis  three  Periods 52 

His  Character ...  55 

His  Canterbury  Tales  56 
Criticisms  of  him  and  Extracts 

from 68 


Contents, 


Period  III. 


Houses  of  Lancaster  and  York, 

and  War  of  the  Roses 69 

Revival  of  Learning 69 

Conquest  of  Ireland 69 

tf  >,     r  Interest      in    L  i  t  e  r  a- 

lli]     ture 70 

I  §g  I  Italian  Influence 71 

S^     [Caxton'sWork 71 

Prose  under  Henry  VIII 72 

Prose  and  the  Reformation ...  73 

'Lydgate 74 

Occleve 75 

Ballads,  etc 76 

Chevy  Chase 77 


53  hii 
5»^ 


.2  s 


Celtic  Elements 80 

National  Elements 81 

Individual  Element 81 

-  Barbour  and  James  1.  of 

Scotland 82 

Henryson 83 

Dunbar  and  Douglass 84 

^  ^  ^^^^^^     S  Hawes 87 

Chaucer  s  -I  ^, 

Influence.  {  Skelton '  87 

rWyatt    88 

lYauIn    I  Surrey 88 

Influence,  j  Blank- Verse .  89 

I  Wilson 89 


Period  IV. 


Material  and  Religious  Condi- 
tion of  the  People,  and 
Troubles  with  Spain  and 
Ireland 91 


11^ 

In 


Satires,     Epigrams, 

Songs,  etc 92 

Masques,  Pageants,  and 

Interludes 93 

Translations 93 

«»     f  Educational 94 

I  g»  I  Theological 94 

^flxj  Stories 94 

"SigJ^    Histories,  Unpublished 

W^     [     Writings 95 

Lyly  and  Sidney 96 

Theological  Literature —  98 

Hooker 98 

Essays — Bacon 98 

History 99 

Travels  and  Tales 100 

Extract  from  Sidney 100 

From  Hooker 103 

From  Bacon 104 


OS 

0 

u 
^  . 

;3» 


Spenser's  Faerie  Queen. . .  108 

His  Minor  Poems Ill 

Extract  from  Faerie  Queen  112 

Love  Poetry 116 

Patriotic  Poetry 117 

Philosophical  Poetry 119 

Translations 119 

r  Miracle-Plays 121 

Moral-Plays 122 

Interludes 123 

The  Regular  Drama. . .  124 

The  Theatre 124 

Lyly  and  Marlowe 126 

Shakespeare 132 

His  Four  Periods 132 

His  Work 136 

Ben  Jonson 138 

Extract  from  Jonson . .  139 

His  Masques 146 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  146 
Massinger  and  Ford. . .  147 
Webster  and  Chapman.  148 
.Shirley  and  Davenant.  149 


Contents. 


Period  V. 


Historical  Sketch 151 

Browne  and  Fuller 153' 

Taylor  and  Baxter 153 

Extract  from  Fuller 154 

Extract  from  Taylor 157 

Extract  from  Browne 159 

[Decline  of  Poetry 161 

j;,   Metaphysical  Poetry 161 

•g  \  Lyric  and  Satirical 163 

g    Rural  Poetry 163 

Religious  Poetry 164 


PAGE 

r  John  Milton 165 

Early  Poems 165 

His  Prose  during  the  Com- 
monwealth   166 

Paradise  Lost 168 

Later  Poems 170 

His  Work 171 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress 173 

From  Milton's  Prose 174 

From  Pilgrim's  Progress. .  176 

From  Milton's  Poetry. ; . . .  180 


Period  VL 


Historical  Sketch 187 

Change  of  Style  and  Subj.  188 

Transition  Poets 191 

.  rSatirist 193 

I  I  Lyrist 193 

^1  Dramatist 194 

[fl  [Extract  from 196 

^  [Theological  and  Political.  301 

0  I  Miscellaneous  and  Party. .  203 

fi  1  Extract  from  Locke 306 


[Pope's  Three  Periods 208 

,  I  The  Minor  Poets 311 

Poetry  of  Natural  Descrip- 
tion    311 

Extract  from  Pope 312 

Swift 318 

Defoe 319 

Berkeley 319 

Addison  and  Steele 319 

Extract  from  Addison 333 


Period  VII. 


Historical  Sketch 325 


S  0 
ft-** 


A  Good  Style 326 

The  Long  Peace 326 

The  Press 226 

Continental  Influence.  227 

^A  r Richardson 228 

g  \  J  Sterne  and  Goldsmith.  229 
"^  [Fielding— Extract  ...  229 

>,  fHume  and  Gibbon 233 

3  \  Biography  and  Travels.  235 
g  I  Extract  from  Gibbon. .  236 
Philosophical — Hume. . . . .  239 
Political— Burke, A. Smith.  239 
Miscellaneous — Johnson. . .  341 


Study  of  Classics  Revived.  343 
Study  of  Chaucer  and  the 

Elizabethan  Poets 343 

Interest  in  the  Past 344 

Change  of  Style 345 

Nature  the  Subject 346 

Man  the  Subject 348 

Scottish  Poetry 349 

Blake's   Poetry 349 

Man  and  Nature  in  Cow- 

per's  poetry 250 

Extracts  from 353 

Burns— The  Love-Poet.. . .  358 
Extracts  from 360 


10 


Contents. 


Pekiod  VIII. 


Brief  Historical  Sketch 

[Miss  Austen  and  Scott. ... 

*  I  Extract  from  Scott 

%  \  Lytton,    Bronte,    Thacke- 
%        ray,  Dickens,   and  Geo. 

[     Eliot 

His-  j  Hallam,  Macaulay,  Mil- 
t»iT-  I     man,  and  Napier. . . 
Biogra-  J  Lockliart,   Southey, 

phy.      j     Forster,  &  Stanley 
Theo.  j  Paley  and  Coleridge . . 

^^*'    (  John  Henry  Newman. 

[Thackeray 

•g  ^  I  Macaulay 

u  0  -I  Newman 


Geo.  Eliot.. . 

Dickens 

[Mill,    Hamilton,    Ben- 
ami  I     tham,  and  Blackstone 
Misc.  I  Burke,     Carlyle,     and 

[    Ruskin 

Ext'sj  Carlyle 

from  "j  De  Quincey 

The  Law  of  Colonies. . . . 

American  Literature    of 

the  Seventeenth  Cent.. 

Ext.  from  John  Smith  . . 

American  Literature    of 

the  Eighteenth  Cent. . . 

Extract  from  Edwards . . 

Ext.  from  Benj.  Franklin 

Ext.  from  John  Adams. . 

American  Literature  of 

the  Nineteenth  Cent. . . 


*J  0  ^ 


268 
269 
271 


277 

278 

279 
279 
280 
281 
286 
289 
292 
301 

307 


310 
316 
320 

324 
326 


332 
335 
338 

340 


Irving  and  Extracts  from  344 
Prescott  and  Motley  . . , 
Holmes  and  Ext.  from. 


350 
351 
356 
362 
366 


Emerson  and  Ext.  from 
Hawthorne,  Ext.  from. 
The  Fr.  Rev.  and  the. Poets. 
Crabbe,  Bloomfield,  Southey, 

and  Coleridge 367 

Wordsworth— Man    and    Na- 
ture    369 

Extracts  from 374 

Scott 384 

Campbell,  Ro^s,  and  Moore.  385 

Extracts  from  Campbell 387 

Extract  from  Moore 389 

Byron — Position  as  a  Poet. . .  389 

Extracts  from 392 

Shelley 399 

Extract  from 403 

Keats 406 

Extract  from 408 

Tennyson 410 

Extracts  from 412 

Morris  and  Others 421 

Extract  from  Morris 422 

Bryant 429 

Extracts  from 430 

Longfellow 438 

Extract  from 440 

Whittier 446 

Lowell 446 

Extracts  from 448 

Extract  from  Whittier. . .  458 


S  0 

a 


Periods  of  English  Literature. 


Period  I.         Before  the  Norman  Conquest^  670-1066. 

Period  II.       From    the    Conquest     to     Chaucef  s 
Death,  1066-1400. 

Period  III.      From  Qhaucef  s  Death  to  Elizabeth. 
1400-1558. 

Period  IY.      Elizabeth' s  Reign,  1558-1603. 

Period  V.        From  Elizabeth' s  Death  to  the  Res- 
toration, 1603-1660. 

Period  YI.      From    the    Restoration     to     Swift's 
Death,  1660-1745. 

Period  YII.     From  Swift's  Death   to  the  French 
Revolution,  1745-1789. 

Period  YIII.  From  the  French  Revolution  onwards, 
1789 


English  Literature, 


Lesson  1. 
introductory. 

Requisites  fob  the  Study  of  English  Literature. — To 

teach  one  English  literature  is  to  acquaint  him  with  the  writ- 
ings which  constitute  it.  It  is  to  put  him  in  the  way  of  getting 
at  the  characteristics  of  those  who  in  a  memorable  degree  have 
contributed  to  it ;  and  to  lead  him  along  this  way  until  the 
traits  peculiar  to  each  are  distinctly  seen  by  him,  and  in  some 
measure  of  intimacy  the  desired  acquaintance  with  them  is 
reached.  To  such  a  study  it  is  evident  that  the  student 
should  come  prepared  ;  he  should  bring  to  it  respectable  attain- 
ments, and  a  respectable  discipline  acquired  in  making  these 
attainments.  What  rhetoric  can  teach  him  of  thought  and  its 
invention,  of  words  and  the  handling  of  them,  of  sentences 
in  their  myriad  variety,  of  the  cardinal  qualities  of  style,  of 
the  great  classes  of  literary  productions,  and  all  that  this 
instruction  can  do  in  developing  his  power  to  discriminate 
and  to  classify  he  should  bring  to  this  work.  Some  knowledge 
of  what  goes  to  the  making  of  literature  and  so  of  what  he  is 
to  seek  in  it,  some  standard  of  excellence  by  which  to  judge 
the  writings  he  is  to  study,  and  a  faculty  to  compare,  to 
estimate,  and  to  decide  are  desirable,  may  we  not  say  needful, 
at  the  outset. 

The  Text-Book. — The  text-book  can  only  aid  the  pupil  in 
this  work — it  wiU  be  something  if  it  aids  without  hindering 


14  Introductory. 

him  in  it.  Instead  of  coming  in  between  the  pupil  and  the 
author  to  keep  them  apart  with  matter  of  its  own,  it  should 
come  only  to  introduce  the  one  to  the  other,  and  to  put  the 
one  on  the  best  possible  footing  with  the  other.  It  has  no 
right  to  substitute,  for  what  the  author  has  written,  something 
which  another  has  said  about  his  writings,  and  call  the  study 
of  this  the  study  of  English  literature.  It  has  no  right  to 
tax  the  memory  of  the  pupil  in  the  learning  of  this,  and  omit 
calling  his  judgment  into  vigorous  exercise  by  a  careful  study 
of  the  authors  themselves. 

The  text-book  may  map  out  literature  by  dividing  it  into 
the  periods  into  which  it  naturally  falls ;  some  account  of  the 
great  events  which  have  helped  to  shape  the  literature  of  each 
period  it  may  give ;  the  continuity  of  the  literary  stream  through 
all  these  changes  in  its  channel  may  be  traced  ;  the  influence 
of  his  surroundings  upon  an  author  and  his  reaction  upon 
them  may  be  indicated  ;  the  productions  of  each  writer  should 
be  named  ;  a  more  ample  description  of  this  and  that  great 
representative  of  his  period  may  be  given ;  and  even  a  critical 
estimate  of  some  works  may  be  made  that  the  pupil  through 
the  glasses  thus  furnished  may  see  what  his  unaided  vision 
could  not  detect :  but  all  this,  be  it  remembered,  the  book 
should  offer  the  pupil,  not  as  the  end  of  his  study,  but  only  as 
a  means  to  place  him  in  a  better  attitude  for  forming  his  own 
opinions,  and  to  enable  him  to  judge  more  accurately  because 
of  the  light  thus  added.  Let  this  also  be  remembered — that 
what  the  author  of  the  text-book  or  the  critics  whom  he 
quotes  may  say  of  these  writings  is  not  to  be  received  and 
retailed  without  question,  but  is  to  be  passed  upon  by  the 
pupil  himself,  and  ratified  or  amended  according  to  his  find- 
ings in  the  extracts  given  or  the  works  referred  to  for  study 
in  the  preparation  of  his  lesson,  and  for  reading  in  the  class- 
room. Only  by  making  the  pupils  witnesses  to  give  the 
evidence,  advocates  to  arrange  and  present  it,  and  the  jury  to 
weigh  it  and  decide  upon  it,  will  the  study  be  made  iateresting 


Introductory,  15 


and  profitable  in  the  highest  degree.  Only  thus  can  a  culti- 
vated taste  and  a  sound  judgment  be  formed  to  guide  pupils  in 
their  after-reading,  and  a  key  be  placed  in  their  hands  to 
unlock  the  treasures  of  literature — the  study  of  which  will  be 
to  most  of  them  the  best,  perhaps  the  only,  means  with  which 
to  continue  the  life-long  work  of  education. 

How  THIS  Work  is  to  be  Studied. — We  wish  here  to  point 
out  more  in  detail  how  this  work  should  be  studied — to  younger 
teachers  the  experience  of  an  elder  may  be  useful.  The  ques- 
tions below  are  framed  for  all  except  the  eight  historical 
Lessons,  which  introduce  the  periods  of  our  literature.  Some 
of  these  questions  may  seem  trifling,  others  may  be  too  diffi- 
cult. The  teacher  will  take  into  account  the  age  and. ability 
of  his  class,  and  the  rank  of  the  author  under  discussion.  He 
will  take  counsel  from  his  experience  and  from  his  use  of 
methods — Dayid  could  not  fight  in  the  armor  of  another. 
Kemembering  that  he  cannot  shift  from  himself  the  responsi- 
bility for  his  work,  he  will  use  his  best  discretion  in  conducting 
it.  But  if  the  line  here  traced  is  followed,  we  ask  that  these 
questions  shall  not  be  put  in  detail.  They  are  grouped  under 
headings,  such  as  classification  and  diction.  Let  each  pupil 
take  the  heading  assigned  him,  and  answer  the  questions  under 
it  without  interrogation  from  the  teacher  or  interruption  from 
any  one.  The  recitation  is  his  work  and  his  only.  The 
direction  of  the  whole,  correction  of  what  is  amiss,  and  expan- 
sion of  what  is  only  suggested  will  give  the  teacher  all  needed 
occupation.  If  any  heading  is  too  comprehensive  for  a  single 
pupil,  he  may  share  it  with  another,  with  others.  The  ques- 
tions under  classification  relate  to  the  text ;  those  under  the 
heads  which  follow  relate  to  the  author's  writings.  Insist  that 
the  pupil,  in  answering  these,  shall  put  his  finger  upon  the 
words  or  passages  from  which  he  claims  to  derive  his  opinion. 
His  answers,  when  he  has  ended,  will  provoke  question  and 
objection,  and  furnish  matter  for  profitable  debate. 
I.  Classification.— In  what  period  is  the  writer  placed?    What  great 


16  Introductory, 


men  are  representative  of  it,  and  what  is  their  exact  date?  Who  were 
his  contemporaries?  To  what  class*  of  prose  writers  or  of  poets  does 
he  belong?  What  are  his  works?  What  is  said  of  him?  Of  them? 
Have  his  productions  become  classic? 

II.  Diction. — As  a  whole,  are  his  words  long  or  short?  Simple  or 
abstruse?  Native  in  origin  or  foreign?  Does  he  use  words  with  pre- 
cision, or  is  he  careless  of  their  exact  meanings?  Does  he  handle  them 
with  ease?  Has  he  a  copious  vocabulary  ?  Judged  by  our  standard,  is 
he  always  grammatically  correct? 

in.  Sentences. — Does  he  affect  long  sentences  or  short?  Are  they 
diffuse  or  epigrammatic?  Are  they  sonorous,  or  are  they  written  with 
slight  regard  to  the  ear?  Are  they  mainly  simple?  Compound?  Com- 
plex? Are  his  complex  sentences  involved  and  intricate,  or  is  the  con- 
nection of  clauses  obvious?  In  the  arrangement  of  parts,  does  he 
incline  to  the  natural  order  or  to  the  transposed?  Are  any  of  his 
sentences  climaxes,  the  parts  growing  in  importance  as  the  sentence 
proceeds?  Are  any  periods,  keeping  the  meaning  in  suspense  till  the 
close?  Are  any  loose  sentences,  containing  each  at  least  one  point  before 
the  end  at  which  the  sense  is  complete,  the  part  following  not  making 
complete  sense?  Does  he  abound  in  parentheses?  Is  he  happy  in 
grouping  his  sentences  into  paragraphs? 

IV.  Style.  1.  Perspicuity. — Is  the  author  always  clear?  If  so,  to 
what  is  his  perspicuity  owing?  If  not,  is  his  obscurity  due  to  imperfect 
mastery  of  his  subject?  To  an  inexact  use  of  words?  To  the  use  of 
strange  words — technical,  obsolete,  foreign,  or  newly-coined?  To  excess 
of  words — tautology  or  verbosity?  To  the  omission  of  needed  words? 
To  expression  too  condensed?  To  a  careless  use  of  personal  pronouns? 
To  a  faulty  arrangement  of  words,  phrases,  or  clauses?  To  an  over- 
loading of  the  sentence  that  destroys  unity? 

2.  Imagery. — Does  he  use  imagery?  Does  he  use  an  excess  of  it?  Is 
his  imagery  helpful  to  the  thought?  Are  any  of  his  figures  of  speech 
used  only  for  ornament?  What  class  of  figures  does  he  prefer?  Do 
his  figures  contain  allusions?  From  what  sources  are  his  figures  drawn? 
Are  any  faulty? 

3.  Energy.— Is  the  writer  distinguished  for  strength?  If  so,  is  it  diie  to 
vigor  of  thought?  To  strong  feeling?  To  the  use  of  specific  v/ords? 
To  conciseness  of  expression?  To  the  transposed  order  of  arrangement? 
To  rapidity  of  movement?  To  striking  imagery?  To  idiomatic  ex- 
pression?   To  apt  quotations?    To  the  use  of  the  climax?    To  the  use  of 


*  For  explanation  of  this  and  of  other  points  in  this  Lesson,  see  Kellogg's  Rhetoric. 


Introductory.  17 


the  period?  To  variety  in  the  structure  of  his  sentences?  To  variety 
in  the  Ivinds  of  sentences  used? 

4  and  5.  Wit  and  Pathos. — Is  the  author  witty?  If  so,  does  he  pre- 
fer wit  with  malice  in  it?  Or  tliat  witliout  hostility — humor?  Has  he 
pathetic  passages? 

6.  Elegajs^ce. — Is  the  production  remarkable  for  beauty  ?  -If  so,  is  the 
beauty  in  tlie  thought?  Is  it  secured  by  the  choice  of  euphonious 
words?  By  beautiful  imagery?  By  long  and  flowing  sentences?  By 
sentences  harmonious  and  symmetrical,  with  parts  nicely  balanced?- 

For  what  quality  of  style  is  the  author  chiefly  distinguished?  Is  the 
style  as  a  whole  attractive  to  you?  Would  further  study  of  it  be 
profitable  to  you?  Is  it  adapted  to  the  thought?  Does  it  lend  value  to 
the  thought?  Does  the  author  show  a  mastery  of  the  art  of  expression? 
Are  you  curious  to  sec  more  of  his  writings? 

V.  Thought. — Is  the  author's  grasp  of  his  thought  firm  ?  Is  the  selec- 
tion crowded  with  thought?  Does  he  make  fine  distinctions  in  his 
thinking?  Is  his  thought  profound  or  superficial?  Original  or  common- 
place? True  or  erroneous?  Does  he  deal  with  facts  only,  or  is  he 
highly  imaginative?  Is  he  dogmatic?  Is  he  controversial?  What  is 
the  topic  of  the  extract,  and  what  is  the  gist  of  his  thought  upon  it?  Is 
he  didactic?  Is  he  aiming  mainly  to  please?  Is  he  persuasive?  Had 
he'observed  much?  Had  he  read  widely?  Was  he  a  man  of  great 
learning?  Had  he  digested  and  assimilated  his  knowledge?  If  argu- 
mentative, is  his  reasoning  easily  followed?  Does  he  cling  closely  to 
his  subject,  or  does  he  digress?  Is  his  reasoning  open  to  any  criticism? 
Do  his  paragraphs  develop  each  a  topic  or  sub-topic  of  the  subject?  Is 
the  transition  from  one  paragraph  to  another  easy  and  natural?  Is  the 
connection  between  them  close? 

VI.  Feeling. — Is  the  author's  heart  in  his  writings  or  only  his  intellect? 
If  the  writing  is  colored  by  sentiment,  what  feelings  of  the  reader  are 
principally  appealed  to?  What  in  a  subordinate  degree?  Does  the 
thought  predominate  over  the  feeling,  or  the  feeling  over  the  thought? 
Is  the  author  hopeful  and  inspiring?  Is  he  genial  and  delightful?  If 
so,  because  of  what?  Is  he  in  love  with  his  kind,  or  is  he  cynical?  Is 
he  in  love  with  external  nature?  If  so,  with  what  phase  or  department 
of  it?  Is  he  sincere  or  affected?  What  else  would  you  infer  of  his 
disposition  and  character?  Do  you  feel  after  reading  him  that  you 
know  him?     Does  further  acquaintance  with  him  seem  desirable? 

The  questions  asked  above  apply  to  Prose.  But,  omitting  those  under 
the  headings  Sentences  and  Energy,  some  of  those  under  Perspicuity,  and 
those  under  Thought  which  relate  to  argumentative  writing,  they  apply 


18  Introductory, 


to  Poetry  also.  Make  much  of  Feeling  in  relation  to  poetry.  A  few 
questions,  peculiar  to  poetry,  may  be  set  down  under  the  head  of 

Form.  1.  Rhythm.— What  foot  prevails  in  the  poem?  Is  it  dissyl- 
labic or  trisyllabic?  What  other  feet,  if  any,  are  substituted  for  this, 
and  where?  In  the  scansion,  is  elision,  or  slurring,  anywhere  resorted 
to?    Can  you  scan  the  poem? 

3.  Metre.— How  many  feet  are  there  in  the  standard,  or  prevailing, 
line?  And  so,  in  what  metre  is  the  poem  written?  What  is  the  metre 
of  those  lines  varying  from  the  standard? 

3.  Rhyme. — Do  the  lines  rhyme,  or  is  the  poem  in  blank-verse? 

Further  Remarks. — On  some  productions,  questions,  in  ad- 
dition to  those  above,  will  be  asked,  or  suggestions  will  be  made. 
Characteristic  specimens  from  only  the  principal  authors, 
and  not  from  all  of  these,  can,  in  a  work  of  this  kind,  be 
given  or  referred  to  for  study.  How  many  authors  shall  be 
studied  in  this  way  and  how  long  they  shall  be  studied  are 
questions  difficult  to  answer.  Much  depends  upon  the  attain- 
ments and  maturity  of  the  class,  and  much  upon  the  time 
allowed  for  the  work.  There  are  those  who  insist  that  but  a 
few  even  of  the  best  should  be  taken  up,  and  that  the  pupil 
should  tarry  with  these*  until  his  acquaintance  has  ripened 
into  real  intimacy.  But  such  intimacy  with  a  few,  even  if 
attainable  when  the  material  for  comparison  and  contrast  is 
scanty,  must  be  paid  for  by  total  ignorance  of  literature  as  a 
whole.  There  is  danger,  too,  that  it  would  nourish  in  the 
pupil  that  *' conceit  of  knowledge"  which  'Ms  the  arrest  of 
progress."  It  would  not  cultivate  breadth  of  view  or  catho- 
licity of  taste.  It  is  at  issue  with  the  aim  of  all  other  educa- 
tion in  the  preparatory  school  and  in  college,  which  is  to  open 
up  to  the  pupil  many  departments  of  study  and  to  enter  him 
a  little  way  in  each,  without  attempting  to  make  him  a  profi- 
cient in  any.  Better  a  taste  of  the  characteristic  flavor  of 
many  authors,  a  taste  that  will  crave  feeding  when  school 
days  are  over,  than  a  long  and  relishable  feast  upon  a  few 
which  shall  leave  the  pupil  without  appetite  for  more  food  of 
the  same,  or  of  a  different,  kind.     The  man  of  many  books 


Introductory.  19 


may  well  heed  the  warning,  Beware  of  the  man  of  one  book; 
not,  however,  because  of  this  home-bred  wit's  superior  knowl- 
edge, but  rather  because  of  his  intolerable  bigotry  and  one- 
sidedness. 

There  are  those,  too,  who  in  this  study  disallow  all  such 
methods  as  the  one  we  have  been  unfolding,  who  even  dis- 
courage the  reading  of  extracts  by  the  pupils,  except  under 
the  teacher's  supervision  and  with  his  explanation  in  the  class- 
room, where  he  and  they  are  jointly  to  commune  with  the 
author.  Communion  with  the  author  is,  of  course,  the  one 
thing  desired.  Everything  in  the  study  should  lead  up  to  it 
as  the  goal.  But  how  is  this  goal  of  communion,  joint  com- 
munion if  you  please,  to  be  reached  except  by  a  start  at  some 
definite  point,  and  by  an  orderly  progress  from  it.  The 
writer's  thought  is  in  his  expression,  the  one  can  be  got  at 
only  by  and  through  the  other.  He  is  in  both,  both  are  his 
— may  we  not  say  both  are  he.  Shakespeare's  thought,  satu- 
rated with  feeling, — could  it  be  divorced,  as  it  cannot,  from 
Shakespeare's  diction  and  style,  would  lose  its  charm  and  its 
power;  could  it  be  reached  by  the  pupil,  as  it  cannot,  without 
approaching  it  through  his  diction  and  style,  the  wliole  of  the 
dramatist  would  not  be  seen — the  pupil  would  not  then  stand 
in  the  presence  of  Shakespeare  himself. 

But  we  unite  with  all  who  disparage  methods  that  divert , 
the  pupil's  attention  from  what  we  have  seen  is  its  proper  ob- 
ject, and  concentrate  it  upon  a  prolonged  examination  of  the 
author's  words  in  their  etymology  and  history,  making  this  a 
study  of  linguistics  and  not  of  literature. 

Differ,  however,  as  we  may  in  other  respects,  in  this  one 
thing  all  will  agree — that  by  the  study  of  English  literature  the 
pupil  is  to  be  put  in  the  way  of  deriving  intellectual  culture 
and  intense  enjoyment  from  books;  that  any  method  of 
study  by  which  he  secures  these  is  good;  and  that  that  method 
is  the  best  by  which  he  secures  them  in  the  largest  measure. 


PERIOD  I. 

Befoee  the  Norman  Co:n^que8t, 
670-1066. 


Lesson  2. 

Brief  Historical  Sketch.— Britain,  at  the  beginning  of  the  historic  period, 
was  inhabited  by  Celts.  This  race  occupied  Gaul,  a  part  of  Spain,  the 
north  of  Italy,  and  some  provinces  of  Central  Europe,  also.  They  belong 
to  the  great  Indo-European  family,  the  other  members  of  which  are  the 
peoples  using  or  having  used  (1)  the  Indian  languages,  notably  the 
Sanskrit,  of  Northern  Hindostan,  (2)  the  Iranian  of  ancient  and  modern 
Persia,  (3)  the  Hellenic  of  ancient  Greece  and  the  modern  Greek,  (4)  the 
Slavonic,  of  which  the  Russian  is  chief,  (5)  the  Italic,  of  wliich  the 
Latin  is  the  great  representative,  and  (6)  the  Teutonic,  subdivisible  into 
the  Gothic,  the  Scandinavian,  the  Higli  Germanic,  and  the  Low  Ger- 
manic. The  Celts  of  Britain  were  independent  tribes,  rarely  uniting 
against  a  common  foe.  They  lived  in  huts  hollowed  out  of  hills,  sides 
vaulted  and  roofs  thatched,  or  in  circular  houses  with  low  stone  walls 
and  conical  roofs — ten  or  twelve  families  under  one  roof.  Practiced 
polyandry.  Lived  on  the  products  of  the  chase,  on  fruits,  milk,  and 
flesh,  and  in  the  South  on  grain  bruised  and  baked.  Wore  tunics  and 
short  trowsers  and  cloaks;  wove,  made  earthenware  and  the  implements 
of  war,  and  tattooed  their  bodies.  Religion  Druidism;  the  priests,  called 
Druids,  were  somewhat  educated,  decided  all  disputes  public  and 
private,  were  exempt  from  taxes  and  all  public  duties,  and  offered 
sacrifices,  even  human.  The  Celts  held  the  soul  to  be  immortal,  be- 
lieved in  transmigration,  and  burned  their  dead,  or  buried  them  doubled 
up  in  cists  or  lying  straight  in  canoe-shaped  coffins.  Irish  teachers  visit 
Britain  and  make  converts  to  Christianity  before  400  a.d.  Caesar  disclosed 
Britain  to  the  Romans,  55  and  54  B.C.  Agricola  pushed  its  conquest  to 
the  Friths  of  Forth  and  of  Clyde,  78-84  a.d.  The  Romans  held  Britain 
by  fortified  posts — Eboricum  (York)  the  central  one — connected  by 
broad  military  roads  passing  straight  over  hills,  and  crossing  morasses  on 
piles.  Romans  exacted  tribute,  and  afterward  taxes  on  arable  and  on 
pasture  land,  and  customs  at  the  ports,  proscribed  Druidism,  abolished 
tattooing,  made  cremation  general,  quickened  agriculture,  and  exported 


History.  21 


corn.  By  420  a.d.,  the  Roman  legions  are  recalled  to  defend  Rome 
against  the  northern  hordes.  Angles,  Saxons,  and  Jutes  of  the  Teutonic 
race,  dwelling  about  the  mouths  of  the  Elbe,  begin  the  conquest  of  Britain 
by  450,  complete  it  by  607.  Celts  exterminated  or  driven  to  the  moun- 
tains. Few  Celtic  words,  dating  from  this  period,  in  our  language. 
Their  names  given  to  the  rivers  survive.  Sovereignty  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxons  at  first  in  the  hands  of  the  people.  War  gives  birth  to  mon- 
archy, the  king  chosen  from  the  leaders  in  battle.  Houses  of  stone 
or  timber,  sometimes  with  an  upper  story,  mead  hall  the  principal  room, 
no  chimneys.  Had  chairs,  stools,  and  benches,  used  carpets  and  cush- 
ions,  glass  drinking  cups,  few  plates  and  knives,  no  forks,  and  a  board 
on  trestles  for  a  table.  Ate  animal  food,  fish,  and  grain  ground  by 
hand  or  in  water  mills  and  baked  in  ovens.  Weapons  were  the  sword, 
battle  axe,  bow  and  arrow,  dagger,  spear,  wooden  shield  with  iron  boss, 
and  mail  of  leather.  Prisoners  taken  in  battle,  debtors  surrendering 
themselves,  and  criminals  were  made  slaves.  Land  was  divided  into 
marks,  each  occupied  by  a  community  of  related  families.  In  time, 
marks  unite  to  form  shires  (32  in  Alfred's  reign,  871-901),  each  with  its 
own  organization  legal,  political,  and  religious.  Shires  (now  counties) 
unite  to  form  a  kingdom.  Wives  practically  bought  at  first,  polygamy 
forbidden,  voluntary  separation  allowed,  and  children  could  be  sold  or 
possibly  put  to  death  by  the  parent.  Religion  Scandinavian,  names  of 
the  gods  seen  in  the  names  of  some  of  our  days  of  the  week.  Names 
of  demons  and  water  sprites  survive  in  Old  Scratch,  Old  Nick,  and  Deuce. 
This  religion  drove  Christianity  out  of  Britain.  Right  of  private  re- 
venge claimed  at  first,  afterward  crimes  and  injuries  could  be  expiated 
with  money.  In  Alfred's  time,  death  was  the  punishment  for  murder 
and  for  some  other  crimes.  Christianity  introduced  from  Rome,  597  a.d., 
by  Augustine,  who  became  first  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  From  607 
onward,  the  Anglo-Saxons  were  fighting  each  other,  until  in  827  the 
seven  or  eight  kingdoms  were  united  under  Egbert,  king  of  Wessex, 
who  now  styled  himself  "  King  of  the  English.  "  The  glorious  period 
of  A.  S.  history  is  the  reign  of  Alfred  the  Great.  Frequent  Danish  in- 
vasions from  832-1011.  Danish  kings  on  the  throne,  1013-1042,  Did 
not  materially  change  the  institutions  or  the  language,  which  was  the 
Anglo-Saxon,  the  mother-tongue  of  the  English  of  to-day.  Anglo- 
Saxon  dynasty  restored  by  Edward  the  Confessor,  1042.  Conquest  of 
the  country  by  William  the  Conqueror,  Duke  of  Normandy,  1066. 

To  THE  Teacher.— Make  as  much  as  the  hour  will  allow  of  each  historical  Lesson. 
Develop  points  that  are  only  suggested.  Emphasize  especially  those  events  that 
♦ccoiint  for  any  feature  or  phase  of  the  literature. 


22  Literature  of  Period  /,,  670-1066. 


Lessotst  3. 

The  History  or  English  Literature.—**  This  is  the  story 
of  what  great  English  men  and  women  thought  and  felt,  and 
then  wrote  down  in  good  prose  or  beautiful  poetry  in  the 
English  language.  The  story  is  a  long  one.  It  begins  about 
the  year  670,  and  it  is  still  going  on  in  the  year  1882.  Into 
this  book,  then,  is  to  be  put  the  story  of  1,200  years.  Eng- 
lish men  and  women  have  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  the 
work  done  by  their  forefathers  in  prose  and  poetry.  Every 
one  who  can  write  a  good  book  or  a  good  song  may  say  to 
himself,  *  I  belong  to  a  great  company  which  has  been  teach- 
ing and  delighting  the  world  for  more  than  1,000  years.' 
And  that  is  a  fact  in  which  those  who  write  and  those  who 
read  ought  to  feel  a  noble  pride. 

The  English  and  the  Welsh.— This  Uterature  is  written 
in  English,  the  tongue  of  our  fathers.  They  lived,  while 
England  was  still  called  Britain,  in  Sleswick,  Jutland,  and 
Holstein;  but,  either  because  they  were  pressed  from  the 
inland  or  for  pure  love  of  adventure,  they  took  to  the  sea, 
and,  landing  at  various  parts  of  Britain  at  various  times,  drove 
back,  after  150  years  of  hard  fighting,  the  Britons,  whom  they 
called  Welsh,  to  the  land  now  called  Wales,  and  to  Cornwall. 
It  is  well  for  those  who  study  English  literature  to  remember 
that  in  these  two  places  the  Britons  remained  as  a  distinct 
race  with  a  distinct  literature  of  their  own,  because  the  stories 
and  the  poetry  of  the  Britons  crept  afterwards  into  English 
literature  and  had  a  great  influence  upon  it.  The  whole  tale 
of  King  Arthur,  of  which  English  poetry  and  even  English 
prose  is  so  full,  was  a  British  tale. 

The  English*  Tongue. — Of  the  language  in  which  our 

*  "  There  is  no  good  reason  for  rejecting  the  term  Anglo-Saxon,  and,  as  has  been 
proposed,  employing  English  as  the  name  of  the  language  from  the  earliest  date  to 
the  present  day.  A  change  of  nomenclature  like  this  would  expose  us  to  the  incon- 
venience not  merely  of  embracing  within  one  designation  objects  which  have  been 


The  Language^  First  English  Poetry.         23 

literature  is  written  we  can  say  little  here.  Of  course  it  has 
changed  its  look  very  much  since  it  began  to  be  written.  The 
earliest  form  of  our  English  tongue  is  very  different  from 
modern  English  in  form,  pronunciation,  and  appearance,  and 
one  must  learn  it  almost  as  if  it  were  a  foreign  tongue;  but 
still  the  language  written  in  the  year  700  is  the  same  as  that 
in  which  the  prose  of  the  Bible  is  written,  just  as  much  as 
the  tree  planted  a  hundred  years  ago  is  the  same  tree  to-day. 
It  is  this  sameness  of  language,  as  well  as  the  sameness  of  na- 
tional spirit,  which  makes  the  literature  one  literature  for 
1200  years. 

The  Fikst  English  Poetry.— When  the  English  came  to 
Britain,  they  were  great  warriors  and  great  sea  pirates — '  sea 
wolves' as  a  Roman  poet  calls  them;  and  all  English  poetry 
down  to  the  present  day  is  full  of  war,  and  still  more  of  the  sea. 
No  other  nation  has  ever  written  so  much  sea-poetry.  It  was 
in  the  blood  of  these  men,  who  chanted  their  sea  war-songs  as 
they  sailed.  But  they  were  more  than  mere  warriors.  They 
were  a  home-loving  people  when  settled  either  in  Sleswick  or  in 
England,  and  all  English  literature  from  the  first  writings  to 
the  last  is  full  of  domestic  love,  the  dearness  of  home,  and  the 
ties  of  kinsfolk.    They  were  a  religious  people,  even  as  heathen. 


conventionally  separated  but  of  confounding  things  logically  distinct;  for,  though 
our  modern  English  is  built  upon,  and  mainly  derived  from,  the  Anglo-Saxon,  the 
two  dialects  are  now  so  discrepant  that  the  fullest  knowledge  of  one  would  not 
alone  suffice  to  render  the  other  intelligible  to  either  the  eye  or  the  ear.  They  are 
too  imlike  in  vocabulary  and  in  inflectional  character  to  be  still  considered  as  one 
speech."— Georf/e  P.  Marsh. 

These  reasons  are  equally  conclusive  against  calling  our  earliest  literature  Eng- 
lish. Wherever,  then,  in  this  Lesson  and  in  the  three  or  four  following,  Mr.  Brooke 
uses  English  to  designate  either  the  language  or  the  literature  before  1066  or  even 
1150,  we  suggest  that  Anglo-Saxon  be  substituted  for  it  by  the  teacher  and  the  pupil. 

This  distribution  of  our  language  and  our  literature,  adopted  by  some  of  oiu* 
latest  and  best  authorities,  seems  to  us  excellent:— 

I.  Anglo-Saxon 450—1150 

TT   ^     1     t:^      1-  u,     (Semi-Saxon 1150—1250    ,,„    ,.„ 

II.  Early  English    j  ow  English 1250-1350    ^^^"^^ 

III.  Middle  English 1350-1550 

IV.  Modern  English 1550 , 


24  Literature  of  Period  /.,  670-1066. 

still  more  so  when  they  became  Christian;  and  their  poetry  is  as 
much  tinged  with  religion  as  with  war.  Whenever  literature 
died  down  in  England,  it  rose  again  in  poetry;  and  the  first 
poetry  at  each  recovery  was  religious,  or  linked  to  religion. 
We  shall  soon  see  that  the  first  poems  were  of  war  and  religion. 
English  Poetry  was  different  then  from  what  it  is  now.  It 
was  not  written  in  rhyme,  nor  were  its  syllables  counted. 
The  lines  are  short;  the  beat  of  the  verse  depends  on  the 
emphasis  given  by  the  use  of  the  same  letter,  except  in  the 
case  of  vowels,  at  the  beginning  of  words;  and  the  emphasis 
of  the  words  depends  on  the  thought.  The  lines  are  written 
in  pairs;  and  in  the  best  work  the  two  chief  words  in  the  first 
and  the  one  chief  word  in  the  second  usually  begin  with  the 
same  letter.     Here  is  one  example  from  a  war-song: — 

*  TTigu  ^intrum  geong  I        *  Warrior  of  ?dnters  young 

TFbrdum  maelde.'  |  With  tcords  spake.' 

After  the  Norman  Conquest  there  gradually  crept  in  a  French 
system  of  rhymes  and  of  metres,  which  we  find  full-grown  in 
Chaucer's  works.  But  unrhymed  and  alliterative  verse  lasted 
in  poetry  to  the  reign  of  John,  and  alliteration  was  blended 
with  rhyme  up  to  the  sixteenth  century.  ^  The  latest  form  of 
it  occurs  in  Scotland. 

The  greatest  early  Poems  remaining  are  two — Beowulf 
and  Cmdmon^s  Paraphrase  of  the  Bible.  The  first  is  on  the 
whole  a  war  story,  the  second  is  religious;  and  on  these  two 
subjects  of  war  and  religion  English  poetry  for  the  most  part 
speaks  till  the  Conquest.  Beowulf  was  brought  into  England 
from  the  Continent,  and  was  rewritten  in  parts  by  a  Christian 
Englishman  of  Northumbria.  It  is  a  story  of  the  great  deeds 
and  death  of  a  hero  named  Beowulf.  Its  social  interest  lies 
in  what  it  tells  us  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  these  people 
before  they  came  to  the  island;  its  poetical  interest  lies  in  its 
descriptions  of  wild  nature^  of  the  lives  and  feelings  of  the 


Beowulf, 


25 


men  of  that  time,  and  of  the  way  m  which  the  Nature-worship 
of  these  men  made  dreadful  and  sayage  places  seem  dwelt  in 
— as  if  the  places  had  a  spirit — by  monstrous  beings.  For  it 
•was  thus  that  all  that  half -natural,  half-spiritual  world  began 
in  English  poetry  which,  when  men  grew  gentler  and  the  coun- 
try more  cultivated,  became  so  beautiful  as  faeryland.  Here  is 
the  description  (taken  from  Thorpe's  edition  of  the  poem)  of 
the  dwelling-place  of  the  Grendel,  a  man-fiend  that  devoured 
men,  and  whom  Beowulf  overcomes  in  battle: — 


Hie  dygel  lend 
warigeaS  wulf-hleoSu, 
windige  nsessas, 
frecne  fen-gelad, 
iSaer  fyrgen-stream, 
under  nsessa  genipu, 
iii])er  gewiteS, 
flod  under  foldan. 
Nis  I)ret  feor  heonon, 
mil  gemearces, 
|)set  se  mere  standetJ, 
ofer  ]?8em  hongiaS 
hrinde-bearwas . 

FeJ?a  eal  gesset ; 
gesawon  ])a  aefter  waetere 
wyrm-cynnes  fela, 
sellice  sse-dracan, 
sund  cuunian ; 
swylce  on  n2es-lileo)>um 
nicras  licgean, 
Sa  on  undern  mail 
oft  bewitigatJ 
sorhfulne  siS 
on  segl-rade, 
w)mnas  and  wildeor : 


They  that  secret  land 

inhabit,  the  wolf's  retreats, 

windy  nesses, 

the  dangerous  fen-path, 

where  the  mountain-stream, 

under  the  nesses'  mists, 

downward  flows, 

the  flood  under  the  earth. 

It  is  not  far  thence, 

a  mile's  distance, 

that  the  mere  stands, 

over  which  hang 

barky  groves  » 

•        •         «        •        > 
The  band  all  sat ; 
they  saw  along  the  water 
of  the  worm-kind  many, 
strange  sea  dragons, 
tempting  the  deep ; 
also  in  the  headland-clefts 
nickers  lying, 
which  at  morning  time 
oft  keep 

their  sorrowful  course 
on  the  sail-road, 
worms  and  wild  beasts  . 


26  Literature  of  Period  /.,  670-1066. 


To  THE  Teacher.— Note  the  two  A.  S.  characters  for  our  th  ;  the  one,  in  line  3,  for 
th  in  thine;  the  other,  in  line  7,  for  th  in  thin.  Italicized  words  in  the  translation 
have  no  equivalents  in  the  original.  Ask  the  pupils  to  name  the  A.  S.  words  of  the 
extract  still  in  our  language,  though  changed  in  spelling. 

"The  love  of  wild  nature  in  English  poetry,  and  thepeo-' 
pling  of  it  with  wild,  half -human  things  begin  in  work  like  this. 
After  the  fight  Beowulf  returns  to  his  own  land,  where  he 
rules  well  for  many  years,  till  a  Fire-drake,  who  guards  a  treas- 
ure, comes  down  to  harry  his  people.  The  old  king  goes  out 
then  to  fight  his  last  fight,  slays  the  dragon,  but  dies  of  its 
flaming  breath,  and  his  body  is  burned  high  up  on  a  sea- 
washed  Ness,  or  headland." 

"  Similes  are  very  rare  in  A.  S.  poetry.  The  whole  romance  of  Beo- 
wulf contains  only  five,  and  these  are  of  the  simplest  kind ;  the  vessel 
gliding  swiftly  over  the  waves  is  compared  to  a  bird;  the  Grendel's 
eyes  to  fire;  his  nails  to  steel;  the  light  which  Beowulf  finds  in  the 
Grendel's  dwelling,  under  the  waters,  resembles  the  serene  light  of  the 
sun;  and  the  sword  which  has  been  bathed  in  the  monster's  blood  melts 
immediately  like  ice."— WrigJit. 

Bibliography.  Anglo-Saxon  Literature  and  the  Anglo-Saxon  Writers.— 
Ttu-ner's  Hist,  of  Manners,  Poetry,  and  Lit.  of  the  Anglo-Saxons ;  H.  Coreon's 
Hand-hook  of  A.  8.  and  Early  Eng.;  H.  Morley's  Eng.  Writers;  T.  Wright's  Bio- 
graphia  Britannica  Literaria ;  Guest's  Hist.  Eng.  Rhythms ;  Taine's  Eng.  Lit. ; 
Craik's  Eng.  Lit.;  J.  J.  Conybeare's  Illiist.  of  A.  S.  Poetry;  G.  P.  Marsh's  Originr 
and  Hist,  of  Eng.  Lang.;  Prof.  Ttn  Brink's  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.;  H.  Sweet's  Hist,  of  A. 
S.  Poetry;  A.  S.  Lit.  in  Encyclo.  Britannica;  in  Johnson's  Cycle. ;  in  Appleton's,  and 
in  others. 

Lesson  4. 

Cjedmon. — "The  poem  of  Beowulf  has  the  grave  Teutonic 
power,  but  it  is  not  native  to  English  soil.  It  is  not  the  first 
true  English  poem.  That  is  the  work  of  C^dmoi^,  and  is  also 
from  Northumbria.  The  story  of  it,  as  told  by  Bseda,  proves 
that  the  making  of  songs  was  common  at  the  time.  Csedmon 
was  a  servant  to  the  monastery  of  Hild,  an  abbess  of  royal  blood, 
at  Whitby  in  Yorkshire.  He  was  somewhat  aged  when  the 
gift  of  song  came  to  him,  and  he  knew  nothing  of  the  art  of 
verse,  so  that  at  the  feasts,  when  for  the  sake  of  mirth  all  sang 


Cmd/mon,  27 


in  turn,  lie  left  the  table.  One  night,  having  done  so  and  gone 
to  the  stables,  for  he  had  care  of  the  cattle,  he  fell  asleep,  and 
One  came  to  him  in  vision  and  said,  ^  Caedmon,  sing  me  some 
song.'  And  he  answered,  '  I  cannot  sing;  for  this  cause  I  left 
the  feast  and  came  hither.'  Then  said  the  other,  *  However, 
you  shall  sing.'  'What  shall  I  sing?'  he  replied.  'Sing 
the  beginning  of  created  things,'  answered  the  other.  Where- 
upon he  began  to  sing  verses  to  the  praise  of  God,  and,  awak- 
ing, remembered  what  he  had  sung,  and  added  more  in  verse 
worthy  of  God.  In  the  morning  he  came  to  the  steward,  and 
told  him  of  the  gift  he  had  received,  and,  being  brought  to 
Hild,  was  ordered  to  tell  his  dream  before  learned  men  that 
they  might  give  judgment  whence  his  verses  came.  And, 
when  they  had  heard,  they  all  said  that  heavenly  grace  had 
been  conferred  on  him  by  our  Lord. 

Caedmon's  poem,  written  about  670,  is  for  us  the  beginning 
of  English  poetry,  and  the  story  of  its  origin  ought  to  be  loved 
by  us.  Nor  should  we  fail  to  reverence  the  place  where  it 
began.  Above  the  small  and  land-locked  harbor  of  Whitby 
rises  and  juts  out  towards  the  sea  the  dark  cliff  where  Hild's 
monastery  stood,  looking  out  over  the  German  Ocean.  It  is 
a  wild,  wind-swept  upland,  and  the  sea  beats  furiously  be- 
neath, and  standing  there  one  feels  that  it  is  a  fitting  birthplace 
for  the  poetry  of  the  sea-ruling  nation.  Nor  is  the  verse  of 
the  first  poet  without  the  stormy  note  of  the  scenery  among 
which  it  was  written.  In  it  also  the  old,  fierce,  war  element  is 
felt  when  Caedmon  comes  to  sing  the  wrath  of  the  rebel  angels 
with  God  and  the  overthrow  of  Pharaoh's  host,  and  the  lines, 
repeating,  as  was  the  old  English  way,  the  thought  a  second 
time,  fall  like  stroke  on  stroke  in  battle.  But  the  poem  is 
religious  throughout — Christianity  speaks  in  it  simply,  sternly, 
with  fire,  and  brings  with  it  a  new  world  of  spiritual  romance 
and  feeling.  The  subjects  of  the  poem  were  taken  from  the 
Bible,  in  fact  Caedmon  paraphrased  the  history  of  the  Old  and 
the  New  Testament.     He  sang  the  creation  of  the  world,  the 


28  Literature  of  Period  /.,  670-1066. 

history  of  Israel,  the  book  of  Daniel,  the  whole  story  of  the 
life  of  Christ,  future  judgment,  purgatory,  hell,  and  heaven. 
All  who  heard  it  thought  it  divinely  given.  '  Others  after 
him,'  says  Bseda,  'tried  to  make  religious  poems,  but  none 
could  vie  with  him,  for  he  did  not  learn  the  art  of  poetry  from 
men,  nor  of  men,  but  from  God.'  It  was  thus  that  English 
song  began  in  religion.  The  most  famous  passage  of  the  poem 
not  only  illustrates  the  dark  sadness,  the  fierce  love  of  freedom, 
and  the  power  of  painting  distinct  characters  which  has  always 
marked  English  poetry,  but  it  is  also  famous  for  its  likeness  to 
a  parallel  passage  in  Milton.  It  is  when  Caedmon  describes  the 
proud  and  angry  cry  of  Satan  against  God  from  his  bed  of 
chains  in  hell.  The  two  great  English  poets  may  be  brought 
together  over  a  space  of  a  thousand  years  in  another  way,  for 
both  died  in  such  peace  that  those  who  watched  beside  them 
knew  not  when  they  died. 

Lesser  Old  English  Poems. — Of  the  poetry  that  came  af- 
ter Caedmon  we  have  few  remains.  But  we  have  many  things 
said  which  show  us  that  his  poem,  like  all  great  works,  gave 
birth  to  a  number  of  similar  ones.  The  increase  of  monasteries, 
where  men  of  letters  lived,  naturally  made  the  written  poetry 
religious.  But  an  immense  quantity  of  secular  poetry  was 
sung  about  the  country.  Aldhelm,  a  young  man  when  Caed- 
mon died,  and  afterwards  Abbot  of  Malmesbury,  united  the 
song-maker  to  the  religious  poet.  He  was  a  skilled  musician, 
and  it  is  said  that  he  had  not  his  equal  in  the  making  or  sing- 
ing of  English  verse.  His  songs  were  popular  in  King  iElfred's 
time,  and  a  pretty  story  tells  that,  when  the  traders  came  into 
the  town  on  the  Sunday,  he,  in  the  character  of  a  gleeman, 
stood  on  the  bridge  and  sang  them  songs,  with  which  he  mixed 
up  Scripture  text  and  teaching.  Of  all  this  wide-spread  poetry 
we  have  now  only  the  few  poems  brought  together  in  a  book 
preserved  at  Exeter,  in  another  found  at  Vercelli,  and  in  a 
few  leaflets  of  manuscripts.  The  poems  in  the  Vercelli  hook 
are  all  religious — legends  of  saints  and  addresses  to  the  soul; 


Early  Christian  Poetry  and  War  Poetry.      29 

those  in  the  Exeter  look  are  hymns  and  sacred  poems.  The 
famous  Traveller's  Song  and  the  Lament  of  Deor  inserted  in 
it  are  of  the  older  and  pagan  time.  In  both  there  are  poems 
by  Cynewulf,  whose  work  is  remarkably  fine.  They  are  all 
Christian  in  tone.  The  few  touches  of  love  of  nature  in  them 
dwell  on  gentle,  not  on  savage,  scenery.  They  are  sorrowful 
when  they  speak  of  the  life  of  men,  tender  when  they  touch 
on  the  love  of  home,  as  tender  as  this  little  bit  which  still 
lives  for  us  out  of  that  old  world :  *  Dear  is  the  welcome  guest 
to  the  Frisian  wife  when  the  vessel  strands;  his  ship  is  come, 
and  her  husband  to  his  house,  her  own  provider.  And  she 
welcomes  him  in,  washes  his  weedy  garment,  and  clothes  him 
anew.  It  is  pleasant  on  shore  to  him  whom  his  love  awaits.' 
Of  the  scattered  pieces  the  finest  are  two  fragments,  one  long, 
on  the  story  of  Judith,  and  another  sliort,  m  which  Deatli 
speaks  to  Man,  and  describes  *  the  low  and  hateful  and  door- 
less  house,'  of  which  he  keeps  the  key.  But  stern  as  the 
fragment  is,  with  its  English  manner  of  looking  dreadful 
things  in  the  face,  and  with  its  English  pathos,  the  religi- 
ous poetry  of  this  time  always  went  with  faith  beyond  the 
grave.  Thus  we  are  told  that  King  Eadgar,  in  the  ode  on 
his  death  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle,  '  chose  for  himself 
another  light,  beautiful  and  pleasant,  and  left  this  feeble 
life.' 

The  war  poetry  of  England  at  this  time  was  probably  as 
plentiful  as  the  religious.  But  it  was  not  likely  to  be  written 
down  by  the  writers  who  lived  in  religious  houses.  It  was  sung 
from  feast  to  feast  and  in  the  halls  of  kings,  and  it  naturally 
decayed  when  the  English  were  trodden  down  by  the  Normans. 
But  we  have  two  examples  of  what  kind  it  was,  and  how  fine 
it  was,  in  the  Battle  Song  of  Brunanlurh,  937,  and  in  the 
Song  of  the  Fight  at  Maldon,  991.  A  still  earlier  fragment  exists 
in  a  short  account  of  the  Battle  of  Finneshurg,  probably  of 
the  same  time  and  belonging  to  as  long  a  story  as  the  story  of 
BeowuK.     Two  short  odes  on  the  victories  of  King  Eadmund 


30  Literature  of  Period  /.,  670-1066. 

and  on  the  coronation  of  King  Eadgar,  inserted  in  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  Chronicle,  complete  the  list  of  war  poems. 

The  Songs  of  Brunanburh  and  Maldon  are  fine  war  odes, 
the  fitting  sources,  both  in  their  short  and  rapid  lines  and  in 
their  almost  Homeric  simplicity  and  force,  of  such  war-songs  as 
the  '  Battle  of  the  Baltic'  and  the  '  Charge  of  the  Light  Bri- 
gade.' The  first  describes  the  fight  of  King  ^thelstan  with 
Anlaf  the  Dane.  From  morn  till  night  they  fought  till  they 
were  'weary  of  red  battle'  in  the  'hard  hand  play,'  till  five 
young  kings  and  seven  earls  of  Anlaf 's  host  lay  in  that  fighting 
place  'quieted  by  swords,'  and  the  Northmen  fled,  and  only 
'  the  screamers  of  war  were  left  behind,  the  black  raven  and  the 
eagle  to  feast  on  the  white  flesh,  and  the  greedy  battle-hawk, 
and  the  grey  beast  the  wolf  in  the  wood.'  The  second  is  the 
story  of  the  death  of  Brihtnoth,  an  ealdorman  of  Northumbria, 
in  battle  against  the  Danes.  It  contains  690  lines.  In  the 
speeches  of  heralds  and  warriors  before  the  flght,  in  the  speeches 
and  single  combats  of  the  chiefs,  in  the  loud  laugh  and  mock 
which  follow  a  good  death-stroke,  in  the  rapid  rush  of  the 
verse  when  the  battle  is  joined,  the  poem,  though  broken,  as 
Homer's  verse  is  not,  is  Homeric.  In  the  rude  chivalry  which 
disdains  to  take  vantage  ground  of  the  Danes,-  in  the  way  in 
which  the  friends  and  churls  of  Brihtnoth  die,  one  by  one, 
avenging  their  lord,  keeping  faithful  the  tie  of  kinship  and 
clanship,  in  the  cry  not  to  yield  a  foot's  breadth  of  earth,  in 
the  loving  sadness  with  which  home  is  spoken  of,  the  poem  is 
English  to  the  core.  And  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  like  a  song 
from  another  land,  but  a  song  heard  often  in  English  fights 
from  then  till  now,  is  the  last  prayer  of  the  great  earl,  when, 
dying,  he  commends  his  soul  with  thankfulness  to  God." 


"Prose — Bceda^  Mlfred^  and  The  Chronicle.    31 


Lesson  5. 

Old  English  Prose. — *'It  is  pleasant  to  think  that  I  may 
not  unfairly  make  English  prose  begin  with  B.^da.  He  was 
born  about  a.d.  673,  and  was,  like  Caedmon,  a  Northumbrian. 
From  683  he  spent  his  life  at  Jarrow,  in  the  same  monastery, 
he  says,  ^  and  while  attentive  to  the  rule  of  mine  order,  and 
the  service  of  the  Church,  my  constant  pleasure  lay  in  learn- 
ing or  teaching  or  writing.'  He  long  enjoyed  that  pleasure, 
for  his  quiet  life  was  long,  and  from  boyhood  till  his  very  last 
hour  his  toil  was  unceasing.  Forty-five  works  prove  his 
industry,  and  their  fame  over  the  whole  of  learned  Europe 
during  his  time  proves  their  value.  His  learning  was  as 
various  as  it  was  great.  All  that  the  world  then  knew  of 
science,  music,  rhetoric,  medicine,  arithmetic,  astronomy, 
and  physics  was  brought  together  by  him  ;  and  his  life  was  as 
gentle  and  himself  as  loved  as  his  work  was  great.  His  books 
were  written  in  Latin,  and  with  these  we  have  nothing  to  do, 
but  his  was  the  first  effort  to  make  English  prose  a  literary 
language,  for  his  last  work  was  a  Translation  of  the  Gospel  of 
St.  John,  as  almost  his  last  words  were  in  English  verse.  In 
the  story  of  his  death,  told  by  his  disciple,  Cuthbert  is  the 
first  record  of  English  prose  writing.  When  the  last  day 
came,  the  dying  man  called  his  scholars  to  him  that  he  might 
dictate  more  of  his  translation.  '  There  is  still  a  chapter 
wanting,'  said  the  scribe,  'and  it  is  hard  for  thee  to  question 
thyself  longer.'  *  It  is  easily  done,'  said  Baeda,  '  take  thy  pen 
and  write  quickly. '  Through  the  day  they  wrote,  and  when 
evening  fell,  '  There  is  yet  one  sentence  unwritten,  dear 
master,'  said  the  youth.  '  Write  it  quickly,'  said  the  mas- 
ter. *It  is  finished  now.'  'Thou  sayest  truth,'  was  the 
reply,  'all  is  finished  now.'  He  sang  the  'Glory  to  God,' 
and  died.  It  is  to  that  scene  that  English  prose  looks  back 
as  its  sacred  source,  as  it  is  in  the  greatness  and  variety  of 


32  Literature  of  Period  /.,  670-1066. 

Baeda's  Latin  work  that  English  literature  strikes  its  key- 
note. 

Alfred's  Work.— When  Baeda  died,  Northumbria  was  the 
home  of  English  literature.  Though  as  yet  written  mostly  in 
Latin,  it  was  a  wide-spread  literature.  Wilfrid  of  York  and 
Benedict  Biscop  had  founded  libraries  and  established  monas- 
tic schools  far  and  wide.  Six  hundred  scholars  gathered 
round  Baeda  ere  he  died.  But  towards  the  end  of  his  life, 
this  northern  literature  began  to  decay,  and  after  866  it  was, 
we  may  say,  blottM  out  by  the  Danes.  The  long  battle  with 
these  invaders  was  lost  in  Northumbria,  but  it  was  gained 
for  a  time  by  Alfred  the  Great  in  Wessex ;  and  with  Alfred's 
literary  work  learning  changed  its  seat  from  the  north  to  the 
south.  But  he  made  it  by  his  writings  an  English,  not  a 
Latin,  literature  ;  and  in  his  translations  he,  since  Baeda's 
work  is  lost,  is  the  true  fatlier  of  English  prose. 

As  Whitby  is  the  cradle  of  English  poetry,  so  is  Winchester 
of  English  prose.  At  Winchester  iElfred  took  the  English 
tongue  and  made  it  the  tongue  in  which  history,  pliiloso- 
phy,  law,  and  religion  spoke  to  the  English  people.  No 
work  was  ever  done  more  eagerly'  or  more  practically.  He 
brought  scholars  from  different  parts  of  the  world.  He  set 
up  schools  in  his  monasteries.  He  presided  over  a  school 
in  his  own  court.  He  made  himself  master  of  a  literary  Eng- 
lish style,  and  he  did  this  that  he  might  teach  his  people. 
He  translated  the  popular  manuals  of  the  time  into  English, 
but  he  edited  them  with  large  additions  of  his  own,  needful, 
as  he  thought,  for  English  use.  He  gave  his  nation  moral 
philosophy,  in  Boethius's  Consolation  of  PMlosojjJiy ;  a  uni- 
versal history,  with  geographical  chapters  of  his  own,  in  the 
History  of  Orosius  ;  a  history  of  England  in  Bceda^s  History, 
giving  to  some  details  a  West  Saxon  form  ;  and  a  religious 
hand-book  in  the  Pastoral  Rule  of  Pope  Gregory.  We  do  not 
quite  know  whether  he  worked  himself  at  the  Englisli,  or 
Anglo-Saxon,   Chro7iicle,  but  at  least  it   was  in  his  reign 


Prose — Ml f red  and  The  Chronicle.  33 

that  it  rose  out  of  meagre  lists  into  a  full  narrative  of  events. 
To  him,  then,  we  look  back  as  the  father  of  English  liter- 
ature." 

"  With  the  Peace  of  Wedmore  in  878  began  a  work  even  more  noble 
than  this  deliverance  of  Wessex  from  the  Dane.  '  So  long  as  I  have 
Hved,'  wrote  JElfred  in  later  days,  'I  have  striven  to  live  worthily.' 
He  longed,  when  death  overtook  him,  '  to  leave  to  the  men  that  come 
after  a  remembrance  of  me  in  good  works. '  The  aim  has  been  more  than 
fulfilled.  The  memory  of  the  life  and  doings  of  the  noblest  of  English 
rulers  has  come  down  to  us  living  and  distinct  through  the  mists  of  ex- 
aggeration and  legend  that  gathered  round  it.  He  really  lived  for  the 
good  of  his  people.  He  is  the  first  instance,  in  the  history  of  Christen- 
dom, of  the  Christian  King,  of  a  ruler  who  put  aside  every  personal  aim 
or  ambition  to  devote  himself  to  the  welfare  of  those  whom  he  ruled. 
The  defence  of  his  realm  provided  for,  he  devoted  himself  to  its  good 
government.  His  work  was  of  a  simple  and  practical  order.  He  was 
wanting  in  the  imaginative  qualities  which  mark  the  higher  statesman, 
nor  can  we  trace  in  his  acts  any  sign  of  the  creative  faculty  or  any  per- 
ception of  new  ideas.  In  politics  as  in  war,  or  in  his  after  dealings  with 
letters,  he  simply  took  what  was  closest  at  hand,  and  made  the  best  of 
it.  The  laws  of  Ini  and  Offa  were  codified  and  amended,  justice  was 
more  rigidly  administered,  corporal  punishment  was  substituted  in  most 
cases  for  the  old  blood-wite,  or  money-fine,  and  the  right  of  private 
revenge  was  curtailed. 

The  strong  moral  bent  of  Alfred's  mind  was  seen  in  some  of  the 
novelties  of  his  legislation.  The  Ten  Commandments  and  a  por- 
tion of  the  Law  of  Moses  were  prefixed  to  his  code,  and  thus  became 
pari  of  the  law  of  the  land.  Labor  on  Sundays  and  holy  days  was 
made  criminal,  and  heavy  punishments  were  exacted  for  sacrilege,  per- 
jury, and  the  seduction  of  nuns.  The  spirit  of  adventure  that  made 
him  in  youth  the  first  huntsman  of  his  day,  and  the  reckless  daring 
of  his  early  manhood  took  later  and  graver  form  in  the  activity  thai 
found  time  amidst  the  cares  of  state  for  the  daily  duties  of  religion,  for 
converse  with  strangers,  for  study  and  translation,  for  learning  poems 
by  heart,  for  planning  buildings  and  instructing  craftsmen  in  gold-work, 
for  teaching  even  falconers  and  dog-keepers  their  business.  Restless 
as  he  was,  his  activity  was  the  activity  of  a  mind  strictly  practical. 
.Alfred  was  pre-eminently  a  man  of  business,  careful  of  detail,  labori- 
ious,  and  methodical.  He  carried  in  his  bosom  a  little  hand-book,  in 
which  he  jotted  down  things  as  they  struck  him — now  a  bit  of  family 
genealogy,  now  a  prayer,  and  now  a  story,  such  as  that  of  Bishop  Eald- 


94  ■  Literature  of  Period  /.,  670-1066. 

helm's  singing  sacred  songs  on  the  bridge.  Each  hour  of  the  king's 
day  had  its  peculiar  task  ;  there  was  the  same  order  in  the  division  of 
his  revenue  and  in  the  arrangement  of  his  court.  But,  active  and  busy 
as  he  was,  his  temper  remained  simple  and  kindly. 

Neither  the  wars  nor  th^  legislation  of  Alfred  was  destined  to  leave 
such  lasting  traces  upon  England  as  the  impulse  he  gave  to  its  literature. 
His  end  indeed  even  in  this  was  practical  rather  than  literary.  What 
he  aimed  at  was  simply  the  education  of  his  people.  As  yet  Wessex 
was  the  most  ignorant  of  the  English  kingdoms.  '  When  I  began  to 
reign,'  said  Alfred,  '  I  cannot  remember  one  south  of  Thames  who  could 
explain  his  service-book  in  English.'  To  remedy  this  ignorance  Alfred 
desired  that  at  least  every  free-born  youth  who  possessed  the  means 
should  '  abide  at  his  book  till  he  can  well  understand  English  writing.'  " — 
/.  B.  Oreen. 

The  Later  Old  English  Prose.— *' The  impulse  Alfred 
gave  soon  fell  Mway,  but  it  was  revived  under  King  Eadgar, 
when  ^thelwald,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  made  it  his  constant 
work  to  keep  up  English  schools  and  to  translate  Latin  works 
into  English,  and  when  Archbishop  Dunstan  took  up  the  same 
pursuits  with  eagerness.  ^Ethelwald's  school  sent  out  from  it 
a  scholar  and  abbot  named  ^lfric.  He  takes  rank  as  the 
first  large  translator  of  the  Bible,  turning  into  English  the 
first  seven  books  and  part  of  Job.  We  owe  to  him  a  series 
of  Homilies  and  his  Colloquy,  afterwards  edited  by  another 
^Ifric,  may  be  called  the  first  English-Latin  dictionary.  But 
this  revival  had  no  sooner  begun  to  take  root  than  the  North- 
men came  again  in  force  upon  the  land  and  conquered  it. 
During  the  long  interweaving  of  Danes  and  English  together 
under  Danish  kings  from  1013  to  1042,  no  English  literature 
arose.  It  was  not  till  the  quiet  reign  of  Edward  the  Confes- 
sor that  it  again  began  to  live.  But  no  sooner  was  it  born 
than  the  Norman  invasion  repressed,  but  did  not  quench,  its 
life. 

The  English  Chronicle. — One  gi-eat  monument,  however, 
of  old  English  prose  lasts  beyond  the  Conquest.  It  is  the  Eng- 
lisJi  Chronicle,  and  in  it  the  literature  is  continuous  from 
Alfred  to  Stephen.     At  first  it  was  nothing  but  a  record  of 


Prose — Mlfredand  The  Chronicle. 


35 


the  births  and  deaths  of  bishops  and  kings,  and  was  probably 
a  West  Saxon  Chronicle.  yElfred  edited  it  from  various 
sources,  added  largely  to  it  from  Bseda,  and  raised  it  to  the 
dignity  of  a  national  history.  After  his  reign,  and  that  of 
his  son  Eadward,  901-925,  it  becomes  scanty,  but  songs  and 
odes  are  inserted  in  it.  In  the  reign  of  ^thelred  and  during 
the  Danish  kings,  its  fulness  returns,  and,  growing  by  addi- 
tions from  various  quarters,  it  continues  to  be  the  great  con- 
temporary authority  in  English  history  till  1154,  when  it 
abruptly  closes  with  the  death  of  Stephen.  *  It  is  the  first  his- 
tory of  any  Teutonic  people  in  their  own  language;  it  is  the 
earliest  and  the  most  venerable  monument  of  English  prose.' 
In  it  old  English  poetry  sang  its  last  song,  in  its  death  old 
English  prose  dies.  It  is  not  till  the  reign  of  John  that  Eng- 
lish poetry  in  any  extended  form  appears  again  in  the  Brut 
oi  Layamon.  It  is  not  till  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Third 
that  original  English  prose  again  begins." 

"  Taking  the  Chronicle  as  a  whole,  I  know  not  where  else  to  find  a 
series  of  annals  so  barren  of  all  human  interest,  and  for  all  purposes  of 
real  history  so  worthless." — Geo.  P.  Marsh. 


Scheme  for  Review. 


Periods  of  English  Literature. .  12 

Requisites  for  the  Study 13 

The  Text-Book 14 

«  1 1-      Classification.. 15 

r    II.    Diction 16 

=  I  III.  Sentences 16 

J    ^'  f  1.  Perspicuity 16 

^  1 7, 1  2.  Imagery 16 


|S 


3.  Energy 16 

4  and  5.   Wit,  Patlios.. . .  17 

H  [6.  Elegance 17 

V.  Thought 17 

VI.  Feeling 17 

.a  ri.   Rhythm 18 

«    H^^2.  Metre 18 

Si.f*h  L3.  Rhyme 18 

Further  Remarks 18 


The   Celts— the    Roman    Con- 
quest   20 

Anglo-Saxons — the  Conquest. .  21 

Danish  Invasions 21 

The  English  Tongue 23 

How  Written 24 

Beowulf 24 

Csedmon 26 

^,  Adhelm  and  Cynewulf 28 

q  j  Vercelli  and  Exeter  Book. .  28 

W  U  ^  fFinnesburg 29 

2  I ;?(?  -!  Brunanburgh 30 

S  t^     [Maldon 30 

•S«  |Bseda 31 

SishElfred 32 

O  b£  I  ^Ifric  and  Eng.  Chron- 
W'^l     icle 34 


PERIOD  II. 

From  the  Conquest  to  the  Death  of  Chaucer, 

1 066- 1 400. 


Lessoist  6. 

Brief  Historical  Sketch.— At  the  time  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  the 
Ano-lo-Saxons  and  their  literature  were  languishing.  The  Conquest  did 
not  cause,  only  hastened,  the  downfall  of  the  Saxon  Commonwealth.  It 
infused  new  life  into  the  exhausted  race.  Rescued  it  from  sinking  into 
utter  barbarism.  Feudalism  introduced  by  William.  King  the  feudal 
lord  and  source  of  all  jurisdiction.  Crown  vassals,  afterward  called 
Barons,  greater  and  lesser,  held  fiefs  directly  from  the  king.  Thanes 
were  feudatories  of  vassals.  During  the  12th  and  13th  centuries,  the 
larger  towns  secure  by  charter  the  right  of  self-taxation,  the  control  of 
their  trade,  and  self-government;  serfs  the  right  to  buy  their  freedom; 
and  villeins  the  right  to  commute  labor-service  by  the  payment  of 
money.  Art  of  weaving  woollen  cloth  introduced  by  the  Flemings 
about  1110.  Trial  by  jury  begins,  1166.  Partial  conquest  of  Ireland 
by  Strongbow,  under  Hen.  II.,  1170.  Richard's  Crusade,  1190-94. 
Loss  of  Normandy,  1204.  John  grants  Magna  Charta,  1215.  First  sum- 
mons of  burgesses  to  Parliament,  1265.  The  independence  of  Scotland 
from  the  overlordship  of  England,  secured  by  Wallace  and  Bruce,  recog- 
nized by  Treaty  of  Northampton,  1328.  With  the  battle  of  Cressy, 
1346,  Edward  III.  begins  the  Hundred  Years'  War  for  the  recovery  of 
the  English  possessions  in  France,  acquired  by  the  marriage  of  Hen. 
II.,  the  first  of  the  Plantagenet  kings,  with  Eleanor  of  Acquitaine. 
This  war  and  that  with  Scotland  developed  the  spirit  of  English  nation- 
ality. First  use  of  gunpowder  and  of  artillery  at  this  battle  of  Cressy. 
Gunpowder  makes  war  a  profession,  undermines  feudalism,  destroying 
military  service,  the  tenure  by  which  land  under  it  was  held,  and  ad- 
vances civilization.  Treaty  of  Bretiguy,  by  which  Gasconj^  Guienne, 
Poitou,  Santoigne,  and  Calais  came  into  the  full  possession  of  the  Eng- 
lish, and  Edward's  claim  to  the  Crown  of  France  and  to  Normandy 
was  waived,  1360.  Dress  and  diet  of  each  class  fixed  by  statute,  1363. 
Peasant's  Revolt  under  Wat  Tyler,  1381.    Rich.  II.  invades  Ireland,  1394 


History.  37 


and  1399.  Four  visitations  of  the  Black  Death,  sweeping  off  2.500,000 
people,  one  half  of  the  population  of  England,  1348-9,  1361-2,  1369, 
and  1375-6.  Population  of  London  in  Chaucer's  time  about  35,000 
(now  4,000,000).  First  royal  proclamation  in  the  English  language, 
1258.  Pleadings  in  law-courts  required  to  be  in  English  by  act  of 
Parliament,  1362.  Instruction  in  the  schools  was  in  English  after  1349. 
The  eight  Crusades  for  the  recovery  of  Jerusalem  between  1095  and 
1272.  The  Norman  Conquest  (1)  stripped  the  native  speech  of  gram- 
matical inflections,  (2)  abolished  a  large  number  of  its  formative  suf- 
fixes and  prefixes,  (3)  destroyed  its  power  of  forming  self-explaining 
compounds,  (4)  caused  the  loss  of  vast  numbers  of  its  w^ords — from  one 
third  to  one  half  of  all  it  possessed,  (5)  brought  in  a  multitude  of^ 
French  words  and  opened  the-  door  for  the  Latin  (the  two  now  forming 
three  tenths  of  our  vocabulary),  added  (6)  prefixes  and  suflixes  and  (7) 
the  comparison  of  adjectives  by  the  use  of  adverbs,  (8)  generalized  the 
use  of  s  as  a  plural  termination  of  nouns,  (9)  introduced  the  custom  of 
indicating  the  possessive  relation  by  a  preposition,  of,  and  (10)  helped  to 
bring  in  or  to  extend  the  use  of  io  before  the  infinitive.  In  the  admixture 
of  races,  humor,  lightness,  imagination,  and  sensibility  to  beauty  were 
added  to  the  plain  and  solid,  but  obtuse,  Saxon  mind. 


L-Essoisr  7. 

General  Outline.— '*  The  invasion  of  Britain  by  the  Eng- 
lish made  the  island,  its  speech,  and  its  literature  English. 
The  invasion  of  England  by  the  Danes  left  the  speech  and 
literature  still  English.  The  Danes  were  of  same  stock  and 
tongue  as  the  people  invaded,  and  were  absorbed  by  them. 
The  invasion  of  England  by  the  Normans  seemed  likely  to 
crush  the  English  people,  to  root  out  their  literature,  and 
even  to  threaten  their  speech.  But  that  which  happened 
to  the  Danes  happened  to  the  Normans  also,  and  for  the 
same  reason.  They  were  originally  of  like  blood  with  the  Eng- 
lish, and  of  like  speech;  and,  though  during  their  settlement 
in  Normandy  they  had  become  French  in  manner  and  lan- 
guage, and  their  literature  French,  yet  the  old  blood  prevailed 
in  the  end.  The  Norman  felt  his  kindred  with  the  English 
tongue  and  spirit,  became  an  Englishman,  and  left  the  French 


88  Literature  of  Period  II.,  1066-1400. 

tongue  to  speak  and  write  in  English.  He,  too,  was  absorbed, 
and  into  English  literature  and  speech  were  taken  some 
French  elements  he  had  brought  with  him.  It  was  a  pro- 
cess slower  in  literature  than  it  was  in  the  political  history, 
but  it  began  from  the  political  straggle.  Up  to  the  time  of 
Henry  II.  the  Norman  troubled  himself  but  little  about  the 
English  tongue.  But  when  French  foreigners  came  pouring 
into  the  land  in  the  train  of  Henry  and  his  sons,  the  Norman 
allied  himself  with  the  Englishman  against  these  foreigners, 
and  the  English  tongue  began  to  rise  into  importance.  Its 
literature  grew  slowly,  but  as  quickly  as  most  of  the  litera- 
tures of  Europe,  and  it  never  ceased  to  grow.  There  are 
English  sermons  of  the  same  century,  and  now,  early  in  the 
next  century,  at  the  central  time  of  this  struggle,  after  the 
death  of  Kichard  the  First,  the  Brut  of  Layamon  and  the  Or- 
milium  come  forth  within  ten  years  of  each  other  to  prove 
the  continuity,  the  survival,  and  the  victory  of  the  English 
tongue.  When  the  patriotic  struggle  closed  in  the  reign  of 
Edward  I.,  English  literature  had  risen  again  through  the 
song,  the  sermon,  and  the  poem,  into  importance,  and  was 
written  by  a  people  made  up  of  Norman  and  Englishman 
welded  into  one  by  the  fight  against  the  foreigner.  But, 
though  the  foreigner  was  driven  out,  his  literature  influenced 
and  continued  to  influence  the  ncAV  English  poetry.  The 
poetry,  we  say,  for  in  this  revival  the  literature  was  only  poeti- 
cal. All  prose,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  sermons  and  some 
religious  works  from  the  French,  was  written  in  Latin. 

Religious  Poetey  and  Story-telling  Poetry.— These  are 
the  two  main  streams  into  which  this  poetical  literature  divides 
itself.  The  religious  poetry  is  entirely  Enghsh  in  spirit  and  a 
poetry  of  the  people,  from  the  Ormulum  of  Ormin,  1215,  to  the 
Vision  of  Piers  the  Plotvman,  in  which  poem  the  distinctly  Eng- 
lish poetry  reached  its  truest  expression  in  1362.  The  story- 
telling poetry  is  English  at  its  beginning  but  becomes  more 
and  more  influenced  by  the  romantic  poetry  of  France,  and  in 


Poetry— Ormin,  Langland^  and  Others.        39 

the  end  grows  in  Chaucer's  hands  into  a  poetry  of  the  court  and 
of  high  society,  a  literary  in  contrast  with  a  popular,  poetry. 
But  even  in  this  the  spirit  of  the  poetry  is  English,  though  the 
manner  is  French.  Chaucer  becomes  less  French  and  even 
less  Italian,  till  at  last  we  find  him  entirely  national  in  the 
Canterbury  Tales,  the  best  example  of  English  story-telling 
we  possess.  The  struggle,  then,  of  England,  against  the 
foreigner,  to  become  and  remain  England  finds  its  parallel  in 
the  struggle  of  English  poetry,  against  the  influence  of  foreign 
poetry,  to  become  and  remain  English.  Both  struggles  were 
long  and  wearisome,  but  in  both  England  was  triumphant. 
She  became  a  nation,  and  she  won  a  national  literature.  It 
is  the  steps  of  this  struggle  we  have  now  to  trace  along  the 
two  lines  already  laid  down— the  poetry  of  religion  and  the 
poetry  of  story-telling:  but  to  do  so  we  must  begin  in  both  in- 
stances with  the  Norman  Conquest. 

The  Religious  Poetry.— The  religious  revival  of  the  11th 
century  was  strongly  felt  in  Normandy,  and  both  the  knights 
and  the  Churchmen  who  came  to  England  with  William  the 
Conqueror  and  during  his  son's  reign  were  founders  of  abbeys 
whence  the  country  was  civilized.  In  Henry  I.'s  reign  the 
religion  of  England  was  further  quickened  by  missionary 
monks  sent  by  Bernard  of  Clairvaux.  London  was  stirred  to 
rebuild  St.  Paul's,  and  abbeys  rose  in  all  the  well-watered  val- 
leys of  the  North.  The  English  citizens  of  London  and  the 
English  peasants  in  the  country  received  a  new  religious  life 
from  the  foreign  noble  and  the  foreign  monk,  and  both  were 
drawn  together  through  a  common  worship.  When  this  took 
place,  a  desire  arose  for  religious  hand-books  in  the  English 
tongue.  Ormik's  Ormulum  is  a  type  of  these.  We  may  date 
it,  though  not  precisely,  at  1215,  the  date  of  the  Great  Char- 
ter. It  is  entirely  English,  not  five  French  words  are  to  be 
found  in  it.  It  is  a  metrical  version  of  the  service  of  each  day 
with  the  addition  of  a  sermon  in  verse.  The  book  was  called 
Ormulum,  'for  this  that  Orm  it  wrought,'  Orm  being  a  con- 


40  Literature  of  Period  II.,  1066-1400. 

traction  for  Ormin.  It  marks  the  rise  of  English  religious 
literature,  and  its  religion  is  simple  and  rustic.  Orm's  ideal 
monk  is  to  be  ^  a  very  pure  man,  and  altogether  without  prop- 
erty, except  that  he  shall  be  found  in  simple  meat  and 
clothes.'  He  will  have  ^a  hard  and  stiff  and  rough  and 
heavy  life  to  lead.  All  his  heart  and  desire  ought  to  be  aye 
toward   heaven,  and   his   Master   well   to   serve.'     This  was 

^/  Englisli  religion  in  the  country  at  this  date. 

^  Literature  and  the  Friars. — There  was  little  religion  in 
the  towns,  but  this  was  soon  changed.  In  1221  the  Mendicant 
Friars  came  to  England,  and  they  chose  the  towns  for  their 
work.  Their  influence  was  great,  and  they  drew  Norman 
and  English  more  closely  together  on  the  ground  of  religion. 
In  1303  Egbert  of  Bruxxe  translated  a  French  poem,  the 
Manual  of  Sins  (written  thirty  years  earlier  by  William  of 
Waddington),  under  the  title  of  Handlyng  Sinne.  William 
OF  Shoreham  translated  the  whole  of  the  Psalter  into  Eng- 
lish prose  about  1327,  and  wrote  religious  poems.  The  Cur- 
sor Mundi,  written  about  1320,  and  thought  ^  the  best  book 
of  all '  by  men  of  that  time,  was  a  metrical  version  of  the  Old 
and  the  New  Testament,  interspersed,  as  was  the  Handlyng 
Sinne,  with  legends  of  saints.  Some  scattered  Sermons,  and 
in  1340  the  Aye^ihite  of  Inwyt  (Remorse  of  Conscience), 
translated  from  the  French,  mai-k  how  English  prose  was 
rising  through  religion.  About  the  same  year  Richard 
ROLLE  of  Hampole  wrotc  in  Latin,  and  in  Northumbrian 
English  for  the  ^unlearned,'  a  poem  called  the  Pricke  of 
Consciencey  and  some  prose  treatises.  The  poem  marks  the 
close  of  the  religious  influence  of  the  Friars. 

In  the  Vision  of  Piers  the  Ploiuman,  the  protest  its  writer 
makes  for  purity  of  life  is  also  a  protest  against  the  foul  life 
and  the  hypocrisy  of  the  Friars.  In  this  poem,  the  whole  of 
the  popular  English  religion  of  the  time  of  Chaucer  is  repre- 
sented. In  it  also  the  natural,  unliterary,  country  English  is 
best  represented.    Its  author,  William  Lan-qland,  though  we 


Poetry — Ormin^  Langland^  and  Others.        41 

are  not  certain  of  his  Christian  name,  was  born  about  1332,  at 
Cleobury  Mortimer,  in  Shropshire.  His  Vision  begins  with  a 
description  of  his  sleeping  on  the  Malvern  Hills,  and  the  first 
text  of  it  was  probably  written  in  the  country  in  1362.  At 
the  accession  of  Richard  II.,  1377,  he  was  in  London.  The 
great  popularity  of  his  poem  made  him  in  that  year,  and  again 
in  the  year  1303,  send  forth  two  more  texts  of  his  poem.  In 
these  texts  he  added  to  the  original  Vision  i\\Q  poems  oi  Do 
Wei,  Do  Bet,  and  Do  Best.  In  1399  lie  wrote  at  Bristol  his 
last  poem,  The  Deposition  of  Richard  II.,  and  then  died,  prob- 
ably in  1400. 

He  paints  his  portrait  as  he  was  when  he  lived  in  Coriihill, 
a  tall,  gaunt  figure,  whom  men  called  Long  Will ;  clothed  in 
the  black  robes  in  which  he  sung  for  a  few  pence  at  the 
funerals  of  the  rich ;  hating  to  take  his  cap  off  his  shaven 
head  to  bow  to  the  lords  and  ladies  that  rode  by  in  silver  and 
furs  as  he  stalked  in  observant  moodiness  along  the  Strand. 
It  is  this  figure  which  in  indignant  sorrow  walks  through  the 
whole  poem. 

His  Vision.— The  dream  of  the  'field  full  of  folk,'  with 
which  it  begins,  brings  together  nearly  as  many  typical  char- 
acters as  the  Tales  of  Chaucer  do.  In  the  first  part,  the 
Truth  sought  for  is  righteous  dealing  in  Church  and  Law 
and  State.  In  the  second  part,  the  Truth  sought  for  is  that 
©f  righteous  life.  None  of  those  who  wish  to  find  Truth  know 
the  way  till  Piers  the  Plowman,  who  at  last  enters  the  poem, 
directs  them  aright.  The  search  for  a  righteous  life  is  a  search 
to  Do  Well,  to  Do  Better,  to  Do  Best,  the  three  titles  of  the 
poems  which  were  added  afterwards.  In  a  series  of  dreams 
and  a  highly- wrought  allegory,  Do  Well,  Do  Better,  and  Do 
Best  are  identified  with  Jesus  Christ,  who  appears  at  last  as 
Love,  in  the  dress  of  Piers  the  Plowman.  The  second  of 
these  poems  describes  Christ's  death,  his  struggle  with  sin, 
his  resurrection,  and  the  victory  over  Death  and  the  Devil. 
And  the  dreamer  wakes  in  a  transport  of  joy,  with  the  Easter 


42  Literature  of  Period  II.,  1066-1400. 

chimes  joealing  in  his  ears.  But  as  Langland  looked  round 
on  the  world,  the  victory  did  not  seem  real,  and  the  stern 
dreamer  passed  out  of  triumph  into  the  dark  sorrow  in  which 
he  lived.  He  dreams  again  in  Do  Best,  and  sees,  as  Christ 
leaves  the  earth,  the  reign  of  Antichrist.  Evils  attack  the 
Church  and  mankind.  Envy,  Pride,  and  Sloth,  helped  by  the 
Friars,  besiege  Conscience.  Conscience  cries  on  Contrition  to 
help  him,  but  Contrition  is  asleep,  and  Conscience,  all  but 
despairing,  grasps  his  joilgrim  staff  and  sets  out  to  wander  over 
the  world,  praying  for  luck  and  health,  Hill  he  have  Piers  the 
Plowman,'  till  he  find  the  Saviour. 

This  is  the  poem  which  wrought  so  strongly  in  men's  minds 
that  its  iDfluence  was  almost  as  great  as  Wyclif  s  in  the  revolt 
which  had  now  begun  against  Latin  Christianity.  Its  fame 
was  so  great  that  it  produced  imitators.  About  1394  another 
alliterative  poem  was  set  forth  by  an  unknown  author,  with 
the  title  oi  Pierce  tlie  Ploiuman^s  Crede,  and  the  Ploimnan^s 
Tale,  wrongly  attributed  to  Chaucer,  is  another  witness  to  the 
popularity  of  Langland." 

Bibliography.  Ormulum  and  Piers  Plowman.— G.  P.  Marsh's  Lectures  on  Eng. 
Lang.,  Lectures  V.,  VI.,  XIX.,  and  XXIV.;  Marsh's  Or.  and  Hist.  Eng.  Lang.,  Lec- 
tures IV.  and  VII.    Also  many  works  referred  to  at  the  end  of  Lesson  3. 


Poetry — Layamon^  Gower^  and  Others.        43 


Lessoist  8. 

English  Story-telling  Poetry.— '^  This  grew  out  of  his- 
torical literature.  There  was  a  Welsh  priest  at  the  court  of 
Henry  I.,  called  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  who  took  upon 
himself  to  write  history.  He  had  been  given,  he  said,  an 
ancient  Welsh  book  to  translate,  which  told  in  verse  the  his- 
tory of  Britain  from  the  days  when  Brut,  the  great  grandson 
of  ^neas,  landed  on  its  shores,  through  the  whole  history  of 
King  Arthur  and  his  Round  Table  down  to  Oadwallo,  a  Welsh 
king  who  died  in  689.  The  Latin  translation  he  made  of  this 
he  called  a  history.  The  real  historians  were  angry  at  the 
fiction,  and  declared  that  throughout  the  whole  of  it  *  he  had 
lied  saucily  and  shamelessly.'  It  was  indeed  only  a  clever 
putting  together  of  a  number  of  Welsh  legends,  but  it  was 
the  hegmning  of  story-telling  in  England.  Every  one  who 
read  it  was  delighted  with  it;  it  made,  as  we  should  say,  a 
sensation,  and  as  much  on  the  Continent  as  in  England.  In 
it  the  Welsh  had  in  some  sort  their  revenge,  for  in  its  stories 
they  invaded  English  literature,  and  their  tales  have  never 
since  ceased  to  live  in  it.  They  charm  us  as  much  in  Tenn}'- 
son's  Idylls  of  the  King  as  they  charmed  the  people  in  the 
days  of  Henry  I.  Bat  the  stories  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  told 
were  in  the  Latin  tongue.  They  were  put  first  into  French 
verse  by  Geoffrey  Gaimar.  They  got  afterwards  to  France 
and,  added  to  from  Breton  legends,  were  made  into  a  poem 
and  decked  out  with  tlie  ornaments  of  French  romance.  In 
that  form  they  returned  to  England  as  the  work  of  Wace,  a 
Norman  trouveur,  who  called  his  poem  the  Brut,  and  com- 
pleted it  in  1155,  shortly  after  the  accession  of  Henry  II. 

Layamon's  Brut.— In  this  French  form  the  story  drifted 
through  England,  and  at  last  falling  into  the  hands  of  an 
English  priest  in  Worcestershire,  he  resolved  to  tell  it  in 
English  verse  to  his  countrymen,  and  doing  so  became  the 


44  Literature  of  Period  II.,  1066-1400. 

author  of  the  first  English  poem  after  the  Conquest.  We 
may  roughly  say  that  its  date  is  1205,  ten  years  or  so  before 
the  Ormulum  was  written,  ten  years  before  the  Great  Charter. 
It  is  plain  that  its  composition,  though  it  told  a  Welsh  story, 
was  looked  on  as  a  patriotic  work  by  tlie  writer.  *  There  was 
a  priest  in  the  land,'  he  writes  of  himself,  *  whose  name  was 
Layamon;  he  was  son  of  Leovenath:  may  the  Lord  be  gracious 
unto  him!  He  dwelt  at  Earnley,  a  noble  church  on -the  bank 
of  Severn,  near  Radstoue,  where  he  read  books.  It  fUkme  in 
mind  to  him  and  in  his  chiefest  thought  that  he  would  tell 
the  noble  deeds  of  England,  what  the  men  were  named, 
and  whence  they  came  who  first  had  English  land.'  And  it 
was  truly  of  great  importance.  The  poem  opened  to  the 
imagination  of  the  English  people  an  immense  past  for  the 
history  of  the  island  they  dwelt  in,  and  made  a  common 
bond  of  interest  between  Norman  and  Englishman.  Though 
chiefly  rendered  from  the  French,  there  are  not  fifty  Norman 
words  in  its  more  than  30,000  lines.  The  old  English  allitera- 
tive metre  is  kept  up  with  a  few  rare  rhymes.  As  we  read  the 
short,  quick  lines  in  which  the  battles  are  described,  as  we 
listen  to  the  simple  metaphors,  and  feel  the  strong,  rude 
character  of  the  poem,  it  is  as  if  we  were  reading  Caedmon; 
and  what  Caedmon  was  to  early  English  poetry,  Layamon  is  to 
English  poetry  after  the  Conquest.  He  is  the  first  of  the  new 
singers. 

Stoby-telling  grows  French  in  form. — After  an  interval, 
the  desire  for  story-telling  increased  in  England.  The  story 
of  Genesis  and  Exodus  was  versified  about  1250,  and  in  it  and 
some  others  about  the  same  date,  rhymes  are  used.  Many 
tales  of  Arthur's  knights,  and  other  tales  which  had  an  Eng- 
lish origin,  such  as  the  lays  of  Haveloh  the  Dane  and  of  King 
Horn  (about  1280),  were  translated  from  the  French;  Robert 
OF  Gloucester  wrote  his  Riming  Chronicle,  1298;  and  the 
Romance  of  King  Alexander,  about  1280,  originally  a  Gre^* 
work,  was  adapted  from  the  French  into  English.     As  tnis 


Poetry— Layamon^  Gower^  and  Others.        45 

dates  grow  nearer  to  1300,  seven  years  before  the  death  of 
Edward  I.,  the  amount  of  French  words  increases,  and  the 
French  romantic  manner  of  telling  stories  is  more  and  more 
marked.  In  the  Layof  Havelok,  the  spirit  and  descriptions 
of  the  poem  still  resemble  old  English  work;  in  the  Romance 
of  Alexander,  on  the  other  hand,  the  natural  landscape,  the 
convention  1  introductions  to  the  parts,  the  gorgeous  descrip- 
tions of  pomps  and  armor  and  cities,  the  magic  wonders,  the 
manners,  and  feasts,  and  battles  of  chivalry,  the  love  passages 
are  all  steeped  in  the  colors  of  French  romantic  poetry.  Now 
this  ]"omance  was  adapted  by  a  Frenchman  in  the  year  1200.  (?) 
It  took,  therefore,  nearly  a  century  before  the  French  romaa- 
tic  manner  of  poetry  could  be  naturalized  in  English;  and  it 
was  naturalized,  curious  to  say,  at  the  very  time  when  Eng- 
land as  a  nation  had  lost  its  French  elements  and  become 
entirely  English.  Finally,  the  influence  of  this  French  school 
in  England  is  seen  in  the  earlier  poems  of  Chaucer,  and  in 
poems,  such  as  the  Court  of  Love,  attributed  to  him.  It  came 
to  its  height  and  died  in  the  translation  of  the  Romaunt  of 
the  Rose,  the  last  and  crowning  effort  also  of  French  romance. 
After  that  time  the  story  telling  of  England  sought  its  sub- 
jects in  another  country  than  France.     It  turned  to  Italy. 

John"  Gower  belongs  to  a  school  older  than  Chaucer,  inas- 
much as  he  is  never  touched  by  the  Italian,  only  by  the 
French,  influence.  He  belongs  to  a  different  school  even  as 
an  artist;  for  his  tales  are  not  pure  story-telling  like  Chau- 
cer's, but  tales  with  a  special  moral.  Partly  the  religious  and 
social  reformer  and  partly  the  story-teller,  he  represents  a 
transition,  and  fills  up  the  intellectual  space  between  Lang- 
land  and  Chaucer.  In  the  church  of  St.  Saviour,  at  South- 
wark,  his  head  is  still  seen  resting  on  his  three  great  works, 
the  Speculum  Meditantis,  the  Vox  Clamantis,  and  the  Confessio 
Amantis,  1393.  It  marks  the  unsettled  state  of  the  literary 
language  that  each  of  these  was  written  in  a  different  tongue, 
the  first  in  French  and  the  second  in  Latin. 


46  Literature  of  Period  IL,  1066-1400. 

The  third  is  his  English  work.  In  30,000  lines  or  more, 
he  mingles  up  allegory,  morality,  the  sciences,  the  philosophy 
of  Aristotle,  all  the  studies  of  the  day  with  comic  or  tragic 
tales  as  illustrations.  We  have  seen  that  Robert  de  Brunne 
was  the  first  to  do  this;  Gower  was  the  second.  The  tales 
are  wearisome  and  long,  and  the  smoothness  of  the  verse 
makes  them  more  wearisome.  Gower  was  a  careful  writer  of 
English;  and  in  his  satire  of  evils  and  in  his  grave  reproof  of 
the  follies  of  Richard  XL,  he  rises  into  his  best  strain.  The 
king  himself,  even  though  reproved,  was  a  patron  of  the  poet. 
It  was  as  Gower  was  rowing  on  the  Thames  that  the  royal 
barge  drew  near,  and  he  was  called  to  the  king's  side.  ^  Book 
some  new  thing,'  said  the  king,  'in  the  way  you  are  used, 
into  which  book  I  myself  may  often  look;'  and  the  request 
was  the  origin  of  the  Confessio  Amantis,  the  Confession  of  a 
Lover. " 

"Of  original  imaginative  power  the  poem  shows  not  the  slightest 
trace,  and  its  principal  merit  lies  in  the  sententious  passages  wliich  are 
here  and  there  interspersed,  and  which,  whether  borrowed  or  original, 
are  often  pithy  and  striking." — O.  P.  3fars7t. 

"  Gower  has  positively  raised  tediousness  to  the  precision  of  science; 
he  has  made  dulness  an  heirloom  for  the  students  of  our  literary  his- 
tory. It  matters  not  where  you  try  him,  whether  his  story  be  Christian 
or  pagan,  borrowed  from  history  or  fable,  you  cannot  escape  him.  Dip 
in  at  the  middle  or  at  the  end,  dodge  back  to  the  beginning,  the  patient  old 
man  is  there  to  take  you  by  the  button  and  go  on  with  his  imperturbable 
narrative.  His  tediousness  is  omnipresent,  and,  like  Dogberry,  he  could 
find  it  in  his  heart  to  bestow  it  all  on  your  worship.  The  word  lengthy 
has  been  charged  to  our  American  account,  but  it  must  have  been 
invented  by  the  first  reader  of  Gower's  works— the  only  inspiration  of 
which  they  were  ever  capable.  Our  literature  had  to  lie  by  and  recruit 
for  more  than  four  centuries  ere  it  could  give  us  an  equal  vacuity  in 
Tupper,  so  persistent  a  uniformity  of  commonplace  in  the  Recreatioiis 
of  a  Country  Parson.'' — J.  R.  Lowell. 

English  Lyrics. — ''  In  the  midst  of  all  this  story-telling, 
like  prophecies  of  what  should  afterwards  be  so  lovely  in  Eng- 
lish poetry,  rose,  no  one  can  tell  how,  some  lyric  poems,  country 


Poetry — Layammi,  Gowei\  and  Others.         47 

idylls,  love  songs,  and,  later  on,  some  war  songs.  The  Eng- 
lish ballad,  sung  from  town  to  town  by  wandering  gleemen,* 
had  never  altogether  died.  A  number  of  rude  ballads  collect- 
ed round  the  legendary  Robin  Hood,  and  the  kind  of  ])oetic 
literature  which  sung  of  the  outlaw  and  the  forest,  and  after- 
wards so  fully  of  the  wild  border  life,  gradually  took  form. 
About  1280  a  beautiful  little  idyll,  called  The  Owl  and  the 
Nightingale,  was  written  in  Dorsetshire,  in  which  the 
author,  Nicholas  of  Guildford,  judges  between  the  rival 
birds.  In  1300  we  meet  with  a  few  lyric  poems,  full  of 
charm.  They  sing  of  springtime  with  its  blossoms,  of  the 
woods  ringing  with  the  thrush  and  nightingale,  of  the  flowers 
and  the  seemly  sun,  of  country  work,  of  the  woes  and  joy  of 
love,  and  many  other  delightful  things.  They  are  tinged 
with  the  color  of  French  romance,  but  they  have  an  English 
background.  We  read  nothing  like  them,  except  in  Scotland, 
till  we  come  to  the  Elizabethan  time.  After  this,  in  1352, 
the  war  lyrics  of  Laurence  Minot  sing  the  great  deeds  and 
battles  o/ Ed  ward  III." 

Bibliography.  Layamon  and  Gower.— Marsh's  Or.  and  Hist.  Eng.  Lang.,  Lects. 
rv.  and  IX,;  R.  Pauli's  Ed.  of  Confessio  Amantis;  F.  J.  Child's  Lang,  of  Ch.  and 
Qow.  in  A.  J.  Ellis'  Early  Eng.  Pronunciation;  Littell,  v.  2,  1858;  Eraser's  Mag., 
V.  59.    Also  some  of  the  works  referred  to  in  Less.  3. 

*"The  minstrel,  or  gleeman,  was  held  in  high  esteem  among  the  Saxons.  His 
genius  obtained  for  him  everywhere  the  respect  and  protection  of  the  great  and 
powerful.  His  place  was  in  the  hall  of  princes,  where  he  never  failed  to  earn  ad- 
miration and  applause,  attended  generally  with  advantages  of  a  more  substantial 
nature.  He  was  sometimes  a  household  retainer  of  the  chief  whom  he  served, 
sometimes  he  wandered  through  different  countries,  visiting  the  courts  of  vari- 
ous princes.  It  was  the  minstrel's  duty  not  only  to  tell  the  mythic  history  of  the 
earlier  ages  but  to  relate  contemporary  events,  and  to  clothe  in  poetry  the  deeds 
which  fell  under  his  eye,  to  turn  into  derision  the  coward  or  the  vanquished  enemy, 
and  to  laud  and  exalt  the  conduct  of  his  patrons.  At  times  the  bard  raised  his 
song  to  higher  themes,  and  laid  open  the  sacred  story  of  the  cosmogony  and  the 
beginning  of  all  things. 

These  minstrel-poets  had  by  degrees  composed  a  large  mass  of  national  poetry, 
which  formed  collectively  one  grand  mythic  cycle.  Their  education  consisted 
chiefly  in  committing  this  poetry  to  memory,  and  it  was  thus  preserved  from  age 
to  age.  They  rehearsed  such  portions  of  it  as  might  be  asked  for  by  the  hearers, 
or  as  the  circumstances  of  the  moment  might  require.  In  their  passage  from  one 
minstrel  to  another,  these  poems  underwent  successive  changes."— W-'Tngrftt. 


48  Literature  of  Period  11.^  1066-1400. 


LiESSOisr  9. 

HiSTOEY.^ — ''  The  Normans  carried  a  historical  taste  with 
them  to  England,  and  created  a  most  valuable  historical 
literature.  It  was  Avritten  in  Latin,  and  we  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it  till  story-telling  grew  out  of  it  in  the  time  of  the 
Great  Charter.  But  it  was  in  itself  of  such  importance  that 
a  few  things  must  be  said  about  it. 

1.  The  men  who  wrote  it  were  called  Ohrokiclers.  At  first 
they  were  mere  annalists — that  is,  they  jotted  down  the  events 
of  year  after  year  without  any  attempt  to  bind  them  together 
into  a  connected  whole.  But  afterwards,  from  the  time  of 
Henry  I.,  another  class  of  men  arose,  who  wrote,  not  in  scat- 
tered monasteries,  but  in  the  Court.  Living  at  the  centre  of 
political  life,  their  histories  were  written  in  a  philosophic 
spirit,  and  wove  into  a  whole  the  growth  of  law  and  national 
life  and  the  story  of  affairs  abroad.  They  are  our  great  au- 
thorities for  the  history  of  these  times.  They  begin  with 
William  of  Malmesbury,  whose  book  ends  in  1142,  and  die 
out  after  Matthew  Paris,  1235-73.  Historical  literature  in 
England  is  represented  after  the  death  of  Henry  III.  only  by 
a  few  dry  Latin  annalists  till  it  rose  again  in  modern  English 
prose  in  1513,  when  Sir  Thomas  More's  Life  of  Edward  V. 
and  Richard  III.  is  said  to  have  been  written. 

2.  A  distinct  English  feeling  soon  sprang  up  among  these 
Norman  historians.  English  patriotism  was  far  from  having 
died  among  the  English  themselves.  The  Sayings  of  Alfred, 
about  1200,  were  written  in  English  by  the  English.  These 
and  some  ballads,  as  well  as  the  early  English  war  songs, 
interested  the  Norman  historians  and  were  collected  by  them. 
William  of  Malmesbury,  who  was  born  of  English  and  Nor- 
man parents,  has  sympathies  with  both  peoples,  and  his 
history  marks  how  both  were  becoming  one  nation.  The 
same  welding  together  of  the  conquered  and  the  conquerors 


Prose — Mandemlle^  Wyclif^  and  Others.        49 

is  seen  in  the  others  till  we  come  to  Matthew  Paris,  whose 
view  of  history  is  entirely  that  of  an  Englishman.  When  he 
wrote,  Norman  noble  and  English  yeoman,  Norman  abbot 
and  English  priest,  were,  and  are  in  his  pages,  one  in  blood 
and  one  in  interests. 

Mandeville. — He  is  called  the  ^  first  writer  in  formed 
English.'  Chaucer  himself,  however,  wrote  some  things,  and 
especially  one  of  his  Tales,  in  rhythmical  prose,  and  John  of 
Trevisa  translated  into  English  prose,  1387, .  Higden'-s  Poly- 
chronicon,  Mandeville  wrote  his  Travels  first  in  Latin,  then 
in  French,  and  finally  put  them  into  the  English  tongue 
about  1356,  '  that  every  man  of  the  nation  might  understand 
them.'  His  quaint  delight  in  tolling  his  'traveller's  tales,' 
and  sometimes  the  grace  with  which  he  tells  them  rank  him 
among  the  story-tellers  of  England. 

Wyclif. — At  the  time  the  Vision  of  Langland  was  being  read 
all  over  England,  Johk  Wyclif,  about  1380,  began  his  work 
in  the  English  tongue  with  a  nearly  complete  translation  of 
the  Bible,  and  in  it  did  as  much  probably  to  fix  the  language 
as  Chaucer  did  in  his  Tales.  But  he  did  much  more  than  this 
for  the  English  tongue.  He  made  it  the  popular  language  of 
religious  thought  and  feeling.  In  1381  he  was  in  full  battle 
with  the  Church  on  the  doctrine  of  transubstantiation,  and 
was  condemned  to  silence.  He  replied  by  appealing  to  the 
whole  of  England  in  the  speech  of  the  people.  He  sent  fortli 
tract  after  tract,  sermon  after  sermon,  couched  not  in  the  dry, 
philosophic  style  of  the  schoolmen,  but  in  short,  sharp,  sting- 
ing sentences,  full  of  the  homely  words  used  in  his  own  Bible, 
denying  one  by  one  almost  all  the  doctrines,  and  denouncing 
the  practices,  of  the  Church  of  Eome.  He  was  the  first  Prot- 
estant. It  was  a  new  literary  vein  to  open,  the  vein  of  the 
pamplileteer. 

Religious  Literatuee  in  Langland  and  Wyclif. — We 
have  traced  the  work  of  '  transition  English,'  as  it  has  been 
called,  along  the  lines  of  popular  religion  and  story-telling. 


50  Literature  of  Period  II.,  1066-1400. 

The  first  of  these,  in  the  realm  of  poetry,  reaches  its  goal  in 
the  work  of  William  Langland;  in  the  realm  of  prose  it 
reaches  its  goal  in  Wjclif.  In  both  these  writers,  the  work 
differs  from  any  that  went  before  it  by  its  extraordinary 
power,  and  by  the  depth  of  its  religious  feeling.  It  is  plain 
that  it  represented  a  society  much  more  strongly  moved  by 
religion  than  that  of  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
In  Wyclif,  the  voice  comes  from  the  university,  and  it  went 
all  over  the  land  in  the  body  of  preachers  whom,  like  Wesley, 
he  sent  forth.  In  Langland's  Vision,  we  have  a  voice  from 
the  centre  of  the  people  themselves;  his  poem  is  written  in  a 
rude  English  dialect,  in  alliterative  English  verse,  and  in  the 
old  English  manner.  The  very  ploughboy  could  understand 
it.  It  became  the  book  of  those  who  desired  social  and 
Church  reform.  It  was  as  eagerly  read  by  the  free  laborers 
and  fugitive  serfs  who  collected  round  John  Ball  and  Wat 
Tylei-. 

Causes  of  the  Religious  Revival. — This  was  originally  due 
to  the  preaching  of  the  Friars  in  the  last  century  and  to  the 
noble  example  they  set  of  devotion  to  the  poor.  When  the 
Friars,  however,  became  rich,  though  pretending  to  be  poor, 
and  impure  of  life,  though  pretending  to  goodness,  the  re- 
ligious feeling  they  had  stirred  turned  against  themselves,  and 
its  two  strongest  cries,  both  on  the  Continent  and  in  England, 
were  for  Truth  and  for  Purity  in  life  and  in  the  Church. 

Another  cause,  common  to  the  Continent  and  to  England  in 
this  century,  was  the  movement  for  the  equal  rights  of  man 
against  the  class  system  of  the  middle  ages.  It  was  made  a 
religious  movement  when  men  said  that  they  were  equal  be- 
fore God,  and  that  goodness  in  his  eyes  was  the  only  nobility. 
And  it  brought  with  it  a  religious  protest  against  the  oppres- 
sion of  the  people  by  the  class  of  the  nobles. 

There  were  two  other  causes,  however,  special  to  England 
at  this  time.  One  was  the  utter  misery  of  the  people  owing 
to  the  French  wars.     Heavy  taxation  fell  upon  them,  and 


Prose — Mandemlle,  Wyclif,  and  Others.        51 

they  were  ground  down  by  severe  laws,  which  prevented  their 
bettering  themselves.  They  felt  this  all  the  more  because  so 
many  of  them  had  bought  their  freedom,  and  began  to  feel 
the  delight  of  freedom.  It  was  then  that  in  their  misery  they 
turned  to  religion,  not  only  as  their  sole  refuge,  but  as  sup- 
plying them  with  reasons  for  a  social  revolution.  The  other 
cause  was  the  Black  Death,  the  great  Plague  which,  in  1349, 
'62,  and  '69,  swept  over  England.  Grass  grew  in  the  towns; 
whole  villages  were  left  uninhabited;  a  wild  panic  fell  upon 
the  people,  which  was  added  to  by  a  terrible  tempest  in  1362 
that  to  men's  minds  told  of  the  wrath  of  God.  In  their 
terror  then,  as  well  as  in  their  pain,  they  fled  to  religion. 

The  King's  English. — We  have  thus  traced  the  rise  of 
English  literature  to  the  time  of  Chaucer.  We  must  now 
complete  the  sketch  by  a  word  or  two  on  the  language  in 
which  it  was  written.  The  literary  English  language  seemed 
at  first  to  be  destroyed  by  the  Conquest.  It  lingered  till 
Stephen's  death  in  the  English  Chronicle;  a  few  traces  of  it  are 
still  found  about  the  time  of  Henry  III.'s  death  in  the  Brut  of 
Layamon.  But,  practically  speaking,  from  the  12th  century 
till  the  middle  of  the  14th,  there  was  no  standard  of  English. 
The  language,  spoken  only  by  the  people,  fell  back  into  that 
broken  state  of  anarchy  in  which  each  part  of  the  country  has 
its  own  dialect,  and  each  writer  uses  the  dialect  of  his  own 
dwelling-place.  All  the  poems,  then,  of  which  we  have 
spoken  were  written  in  dialects  of  English,  not  in  a  fixed 
English  common  to  all  writers.  French  or  Latin  was  the 
language  of  literature  and  of  the  literary  class.  But  towards 
the  middle  of  Edward  the  Third's  reign,  English  got  the 
better  of  French.  After  the  Black  Death  in  1349,  French 
was  less  used;  in  1362  English  was  made  the  language  of  the 
courts  of  law.  At  the  same  time  a  standard  English  language 
was  born.  It  did  not  overthrow  the  dialects,  for  the  Vision 
of  Piers  the  Plowman  and  Wyclif's  Translation  of  the  Bihle 
are  both  in  a  dialect;  but  it  stood  forth  as  the  literary  Ian- 


52  Literature  of  Period  II,,  1066-1400. 

guage  in  which  all  future  English  literature  had  to  be  writ- 
ten. It  had  been  growing  up  in  Robert  of  Brunne's  work, 
and  in  the  Romance  of  King  Alexander;  but  it  was  fixed  into 
clear  form  by  Chaucer  and  Gower.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  English 
language  talked  in  the  Court  and  in  the  Court  society  to  which 
these  poets  belonged.  It  was  the  King's  English,  and  the 
fact  that  it  was  the  tongue  of  the  best  and  most  cultivated 
society,  as  well  as  the  great  excellence  of  the  works  written  in 
it  by  these  poets  made  it  at  once  the  tongue  of  literature." 

Bibliography.  Wyclif.— F,  Myers'  Lectures',  R.  Vaughan's  Life  and  Opinions 
of;  W.  Hanna's  Wyclif  and  the  Huguenots;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  20,  1853-1;  Quar.  Rev., 
V.  104, 1858;  West.  Rev.,  v.  62,  1854;  Green's  Hist.  England,  and  other  histories  of 
Eng. 

Lesson  10. 

Chaucer.  His  French  Period.— '' Geoffrey  Chaucer 
was  the  son  of  a  vintner,  of  Thames  Street,  London,  and  was 
born,  it  is  now  believed,  in  1340.  He  lived  almost  all  his  life 
in  London,  in  the  centre  of  its  work  and  society.  When  he 
was  sixteen,  he  became  page  to  the  wife  of  Lionel,  Duke  of 
Clarence,  and  continued  at  the  Court  till  he  joined  the 
army  in  France  in  1359.  He  was  taken  prisoner,  but  was 
ransomed  before  the  treaty  of  Bretigny  in  1360.  We  then 
know  nothing  of  his  life  for  six  years;  but,  from  items  in  the 
Exchequer  Rolls,  we  find  that  he  was  again  connected  with 
the  Court  from  1366  to  1372.  It  was  during  this  time  that 
he  began  to  write.  His  first  poem  may  have  been  the  A,  B, 
C,  a  prayer  Englished  from  the  French  at  the  request  of  the 
Duchess  Blanche.  The  translation  of  the  Romaunt  of  the 
Rose  has  been  attributed  to  him,  but  the  best  critics  are 
doubtful  of,  or  deny,  his  authorship  of  it.  They  are  sure  of 
only  two  poems,  the  Comjjley^ite  to  Pity  in  1368,  and  in  the 
next  year  the  Dethe  of  Blaunche  the  Duchesse,  whose  husband, 
John  of  Gaunt,  was  Chaucer's  patron.  These,  written  under 
the  influence  of  French  poetry,  are  classed  under  the  name 
of  Chaucer's  first  period.     There  are  lines  in  them  which  seem 


Poetry — Chaucer.  53 

to  speak  of  a  luckless  love  affair,  and  in  this  broken  love  it  has 
been  supposed  that  we  find  the  key  to  Chaucer's  early  life. 

Chaucee's  Italian  Period. — Chaucer's  second  poetic 
period  may  be  called  the  period  of  Italian  influence,  from 
1372  to  1384.  During  these  years  he  went  for  the  king  on 
no  less  than  seven  diplomatic  missions.  Three  of  these,  in 
1372,  '74,  and  '78,  were  to  Italy.  At  that  time  the  great  Ital- 
ian literature  which  inspired  then,  and  still  inspires,  Euro- 
pean literature,  had  reached  full  growth,  and  it  opened  to 
Chaucer  a  new  world  of  art.  If  he  read  the  Vita  Nuova,  and 
the  Divina  Commedia  of  Dante,  he  knew  for  the  first  time 
the  power  and  range  of  poetry.  He  read  the  Sonnets  of 
Petrarca,  and  he  learnt  what  is  meant  by  '  form '  in  poetry. 
He  read  the  tales  of  Boccaccio,  who  made  Italian  prose,  and  in 
them  he  first  saw  how  to  tell  a  story  exquisitely.  Petrarca 
and  Boccaccio  he  may  even  have  met,  for  they  died  in  1374 
and  1375,  but  he  never  saw  Dante,  who  died  at  Ravenna  in 
1321.  When  he  came  back  from  these  journeys,  he  was  a 
new  man.  He  threw  aside  the  romantic  jooetry  of  France, 
and  laughed  at  it  in  his  gay  and  kindly  manner  in  the  Rime 
of  Sir  TJiopas,  afterwards  made  one  of  the  Canterhiiry  Tales. 

His  chief  work  of  this  time  bears  witness  to  the  influence  of 
Italy.  It  was  Troyhis  and  Creseide,  1382  (?),  which  is  a 
translation,  with  many  changes  and  additions,  of  the  Filos- 
trato  of  Boccaccio.  The  additions  (and  he  nearly  doubled 
the  poem)  are  stamped  with  his  own  peculiar  tenderness, 
vividness,  and  simplicity.  His  changes  from  the  original  are 
all  towards  the  side  of  purity,  good  taste,  and  piety.  We 
meet  the  further  influence  of  Boccaccio  in  the  birth  of  some 
of  the  Canterhury  Tales,  and  of  Petrarca  in  the  Tales  them- 
selves. To  this  time  is  now  referred  the  tale  of  the  Second 
Nun,  that  of  the  Doctor,  the  Man  of  Law,  the  Clerk, 
the  Prioress,  the  Squire,  the  Franklin,  Sir  Thopas,  and 
the  first  draft  of  the  Knight's  Tale,  borrowed,  with  much 
freedom,  from  the  Teseide  of  Boccaccio. 


54  Literature  of  Period  IL,  1066-1400. 

The  other  poems  of  this  period  were  the  Parlament  of  Foules, 
the  Compleynt  of  Mars,  Anelida  and  Ar  cite,  Boece,  and  the  For- 
mer Age,  all  between  1374  and  '76,  the  Lines  to  Adam  Sc7'ive- 
ner,  1383,  and  the  Rous  of  Fame,  1384  (?).  In  the  passion  with 
which  Chaucer  describes  the  mined  love  of  Troilus  and  Ane- 
lida, some  have  traced  the  lingering  sorrow  of  his  early  love 
affair.  But  if  this  be  true,  it  was  now  passing  away,  for,  in 
the  creation  of  Pandarus  in  the  Troilus  and  in  the  delightful 
fun  of  the  Parlament  of  Foules,  a  new  Chaucer  appears,  the 
humorous  poet  of  the  Canterbury  Tales.  In  the  active  busi- 
ness life  he  led  during  this  period,  he  was  likely  to  grow  out 
of  mere  sentiment,  for  he  was  not  only  employed  on  service 
abroad  but  also  at  home.  In  1374  he  was  Comptroller  of  the 
Wool  Customs,  in  1382  of  the  Petty  Customs,  and  in  1386 
Member  of  Parliament  for  Kent. 

Chaucer's  English  Period.— It  is  in  the  next  period, 
from  1384  to  1390,  that  he  left  behind  Italian  influence  as  he 
had  left  Prench,  and  became  entirely  himself,  entirely  Eng- 
lish. The  comparative  poverty  in  which  he  now  lived,  and 
the  loss  of  his  offices,  for  in  John  of  Gaunt's  absence  he  lost 
Court  favor,  may  have  given  him  more  time  for  study  and 
the  retired  life  of  a  poet.  At  least  in  his  Legende  of  Good 
Wo7)ien,  the  prologue  to  which  was  written  in  1385,  we  find 
him  a  closer  student  than  ever  of  books  and  of  nature.  His 
appointment  as  Clerk  of  the  Works  in  1389  brought  him  again 
into  contact  with  men.  He  superintended  the  repairs  and 
building  at  the  Palace  of  Westminster,  the  Tower,  and  St. 
George's  Chapel,  Windsor,  till  July,  1391,  when  he  was  super- 
seded, and  lived  on  pensions  allotted  to  him  by  Eichard  and 
by  Henry  IV.,  after  he  had  sent  the  King  in  1399  his  Compleint 
to  Ms  Purse,  Before  1390,  however,  he  had  added  to  his  great 
work  the  tales  of  the  Miller,  the  Reeve,  the  Cook,  the  Wife  of 
Bath,  the  Merchant,  the  Friar,  the  Nun's  Priest,  the  Pardoner, 
and  perhaps  the  Sompnour.  The  Prologue  was  probably  writ- 
ten in  1388.     In  the  humor  of  these,  in  their  vividness  of  por- 


Poetry — Chaucer.  55 

traiture,  in  their  ease  of  narration,  and  in  the  variety  of  their 
characters,  Chaucer  shines  supreme.  A  few  smaller  poems 
belong  to  this  best  time,  such  as  Truth  and  the  Moder  of 
God. 

During  his  last  ten  years,  he  wrote  some  small  poems,  and 
along  with  the  Compleynte  of  Venus  and  a  prose  treatise  on 
the  Astrolabe,  four  more  tales,  the  Canon's-yeoman's,  the 
Manciple's,  the  Monk's,  and  the  Parsone's.  The  last  was 
written  the  year  of  his  deatli,  1400.  Having  done  this  work, 
he  died  in  a  house  under  the  shadow  of  the  Abbey  of  West- 
minster. Within  the  walls  of  tlie  Abbey  Church,  the  first  of 
the  poets  who  lie  there,  that  '  sacred  and  happy  spirit '  sleeps. 

Chaucer's  Chaeacteb. — Born  of  the  tradesman  class, 
Chaucer  was  in  every  sense  of  the  word  one  of  the  finest  of 
gentlemen:  tender,  graceful  in  thought,  glad  of  heart,  humor- 
ous, and  satirical  without  unkindness;  sensitive  to  every  change 
of  feeling  in  himself  and  others,  and  therefore  full  of  sym- 
pathy; brave  in  misfortune,  even  to  mirth,  and  doing  well  and 
with  careful  honesty  all  he  undertook.  His  first  and  great 
delight  was  in  human  nature,  and  he  makes  us  love  the  noble 
characters  in  his  poems  and  feel  with  kindliness  towards  the 
baser  and  ruder  sort.  He  never  sneers,  for  he  had  a  wide 
charity,  and  we  can  always  smile  in  his  pages  at  the  follies  and 
forgive  the  sins  of  men.  He  had  a  true  and  chivalrous  regard 
for  women,  and  his  wife  and  he  must  have  been  very  happy  if 
they  fulfilled  the  ideal  he  had  of  marriage.  He  lived  in  aristo- 
cratic society,  and  yet  he  thought  him  the  greatest  gentleman 
who  was  'most  vertuous  alway,  prive,  and  pert  (open),  and 
most  entendeth  aye  to  do  the  gentil  dedes  that  he  can.'  He 
lived  frankly  among  men,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  saw  many 
different  types  of  men,  and  in  his  own  time  filled  many  parts 
as  a  man  of  the  world  and  of  business. 

Yet,  with  all  this  active  and  observant  life,  he  was  commonly 
very  quiet  and  kept  much  to  himself.  The  Host  in  the  Tales 
japes  at  him  for  his  lonely,  abstracted  air.     '  Thou  lookest  as 


56  Literature  of  Period  11. ,  1066-1400. 

thou  wouldest  find  a  hare,  And  ever  on  the  ground  I  see  thee 
stare'  Being  a  good  scholar,  he  read  morning  and  night  alone, 
and  he  says  that  after  his  (office)  work  he  would  go  home  and  sit 
at  another  book  as  dumb  as  a  stone,  till  his  look  was  dazed. 
While  at  study  and  when  he  was  making  of  songs  and  ditties, 
*  nothing  else  that  God  had  made'  had  any  interest  for  him. 
There  was  but  one  thing  that  roused  him  then,  and  that  too  he 
liked  to  enjoy  alone.  It  was  the  beauty  of  the  morning,  and 
the  fields,  the  woods,  and  streams,  and  flowers,  and  the  singing 
of  the  little  birds.  This  made  his  heart  full  of  revel  and  solace, 
and,  when  spring  came  after  winter,  he  rose  with  the  lark  and 
cried,  '  Farewell  my  book  and  my  devotion.'  He  was  the  first 
who  made  the  love  of  nature  a  distinct  element  in  English 
poetry.  He  was  the  first  who,  in  spending  the  whole  day  gazing 
alone  on  the  daisy,  set  going  that  lonely  delight  in  natural 
scenery  which  is  so  special  a  mark  of  the  later  poets.  He  lived 
thus  a  double  life,  in  and  out  of  the  world,  but  never  a  gloomy 
one.  For  he  was  fond  of  mirth  and  good-living,  and,  when  he 
•grew  towards  age,  was  portly  of  waist,  *  no  poppet  to  embrace.' 
But  he  kept  to  the  end  his  elvish  countenance,  the'  shy,  deli- 
cate, half-mischievous  face  which  looked  on  men  from  its  grey 
hair  and  forked  beard,  and  was  set  off  by  his  dark-colored  dress 
and  hood.  A  knife  and  an  inkhorn  hung  on  his  dress,  we  see  a 
rosary  in  his  hand,  and,  when  he  was  alone,  he  walked  swiftly. 
The  Canterbury  Tales. — Of  his  work  it  is  not  easy  to 
speak  briefly,  because  of  its  great  variety.  Enough  has  been 
said  of  it,  with  the  exception  of  his  most  complete  creation, 
the  Canterbury  Tales.  It  will  be  seen  from  the  dates  given 
above  that  they  were  not  written  at  one  time.  They  are  not 
and  cannot  be  looked  on  as  a  whole.  Many  were  written  in- 
dependently, and  then  fitted  into  the  framework  of  the  Prol- 
ogue in  1388.  At  that  time  a  number  more  were  written, 
and  the  rest  added  at  intervals  till  his  death.  In  fact,  the 
whole  thing  was  done  much  in  the  same  way  as  Mr.  Tennyson 
has  written  his  Idylls  of  the  King.     The  manner  in  which  he 


Poetry — Chaucer.  57 


knitted  them  together  was  very  simple  and  likely  to  please 
English  people.  The  holiday  excursions  of  the  time  were  the 
pilgrimages,  and  the  most  famous  and  the  pleasan test  pilgrim- 
age to  go,  especially  for  Londoners,  was  the  three  or  four 
days'  journey  to  see  the  slirine  of  St.  Thomas  at  Canterbury. 
Persons  of  all  ranks  in  life  met  and  travelled  together,  start- 
ing from  a  London  inn.  Chaucer  seized  on  this  as  the  frame 
in  which  to  set  his  pictures  of  life.  He  grouped  around  the 
jovial  host  of  the  Tabard  Inn  men  and  women  of  every  class 
of  society  in  England,  set  them  on  horseback  to  ride  to  Can- 
terbury, and  made  each  of  them  tell  a  tale. 

No  one  could  hit  off  a  character  better,  and  in  his  Prologue, 
and  in  the  prologues  to  the  several  Tales,  the  whole  of  the  new, 
vigorous  English  society  which  had  grown  up  since  Edward  I. 
is  painted  with  astonishing  vividness.  *  I  see  all  the  pilgrims 
in  the  Canterbury  Tales,'  says  Dryden,  *  their  humors,  their 
features,  and  the  very  dress  as  distinctly  as  if  I  had  supped  with 
them  at  the  Tabard  in  Southwark.'  The  Tales  themselves 
take  in  the  whole  range  of  the  poetry  of  the  middle  ages — the 
legend  of  the  saint,  the  romance  of  the  knight,  the  wonderful 
fables  of  the  traveller,  the  coarse  tale  of  common  life,  the  love 
story,  the  allegory,  the  satirical  lay,  and  the  apologue.  And 
they  are  pure  tales.  He  has  been  said  to  have  had  dramatic 
power,  but  he  has  none.  He  is  simply  the  greatest  English 
story-teller  ia  verse.  All  the  best  tales  are  told  easily,  sin- 
cerely, with  great  grace,  and  yet  with  so  much  homeliness  that 
a  child  can  understand  them.  Sometimes  his  humor  is  broad, 
sometimes  sly,  sometimes  gay,  sometimes  he  brings  tears  into 
our  eyes,  and  he  can  make  us  smile  or  be  sad  as  he  pleases. 

He  had  a  very  fine  ear  for  the  music  of  verse,  and  the  tale 
and  the  verse  go  together  like  voice  and  music.  Indeed,  so 
softly  flowing  and  bright  are  they  that  to  read  them  is  like 
listening  in  a  meadow  full  of  sunshine  to  a  clear  stream  rip- 
pling over  its  bed  of  pebbles.  The  English  in  which  they  are 
written  is  almost  the  English  of  our  time;  and  it  is  literary 


58  Literature  of  Period  II.,  1066-1400. 

English.  Chancer  made  our  tongue  into  a  true  means  of 
poetry.  He  did  more,  he  welded  together  the. French  and 
English  elements  in  the  language  and  made  them  into  one 
English  tool  for  the  use  of  literature,  and  all  prose  writers 
and  poets  in  English  since  his  day  derive  their  tongue  from 
the  language  of  the  Ganterhiirij  Tales.  They  give  him  honor 
for  this,  but  still  more  for  that  he  was  the  first  English 
artist.  Poetry  is  an  art,  and  the  artist  in  poetry  is  one  who 
writes  for  pure  pleasure,  and  for  nothing  else,  and  who  de- 
sires to  give  to  others  the  same  fine  pleasure  by  his  poems 
which  he  had  in  writing  them.  The  thing  he  most  cares 
about  is  that  the  form  in  which  he  puts  his  thoughts  or  feel- 
ings may  be  perfectly  fitting  to  the  subject,  and  as  beautiful 
as  possible — but  for  this  he  cares  very  greatly;  and  in  this 
Chaucer  stands  apart  from  the  other  poets  of  his  time.  Gower 
wrote  with  a  moral  object,  and  nothing  can  be  duller  than 
the  form  in  which  he  puts  his  tales.  The  author  of  Piers  the 
Ploivma7i  wrote  with  the  object  of  reform  in  social  and  ecclesi- 
astical affairs,  and  his  form  is  uncouth  and  harsh.  Chaucer 
wrote  because  he  was  full  of  emotion  and  joy  in  his  own 
thoughts,  and  thought  that  others  would  weep  and  be  glad 
with  him,  and  the  only  time  he  ever  moralizes  is  in  the  tales 
of  the  Yeoman  and  the  Manciple.  He  has,  then,  the  best 
right  to  the  poet's  name.     He  is  the  first  English  artist." 

"  The  English  writers  of  the  fourteenth  century  had  an  advantage 
which  was  altogether  peculiar  to  their  age  and  country.  At  all  previous 
periods,  the  two  languages  had  co -existed,  in  a  great  degree  indepen- 
dently of  each  other,  with  little  tendency  to  intermix ;  but  in  the  earlier  part 
of  that  century,  they  began  to  coalesce,  and  this  process  was  going  on 
with  a  rapidity  that  threatened  a  predominance  of  the  French,  if  not  a 
total  extinction  of  the  Saxon  element.  That  the  syntax  should  be  Eng- 
lish national  feeling  demanded;  but  French  was  so  familiar  and  habitual 
to  all  who  were  able  to  read  that  probably  the  scholarship  of  the  day 
would  scarcely  have  been  able  to  determine,  with  respect  to  a  large 
proportion  of  the  words  in  common  use,  from  which  of  the  two  great 
wells  of  speech  they  had  proceeded. 


Poetry — Chaucer. 


Happily,  a  great  arbiter  arose  at  the  critical  moment  to  determine  what 
share  of  the  contributions  of  France  should  be  permanently  annexed  to 
the  linguistic  inheritance  of  Englishmen.  Chaucer  did  not  introduce 
into  our  language  words  which  it  had  rejected  as  aliens  before,  but  out 
of  those  which  had  been  already  received  he  invested  the  better  portion 
with  the  rights  of  citizenship,  and  stamped  them  with  the  mint-mark  of 
English  coinage.  In  this  way  he  formed  a  vocabulary  which,  with  few- 
exceptions,  the  taste  of  succeeding  generations  has  approved.  He  is 
eminently  the  creator  of  our  literary  dialect,  the  introducer,  if  not  the 
inventor,  of  some  of  our  finest  poetical  forms;  and  so  essential  were  his 
labors  in  the  founding  of  our  national  literature  that,  without  Chaucer, 
the  seventeenth  century  could  have  produced  no  Milton,  the  nineteenth 
DO  Keats." — Geo.  P.  Marsh. 

"  Chaucer  was  the  first  great  poet  who  really  loved  outward  nature  as 
the  source  of  conscious  pleasurable  emotion.  Chaucer  took  a  true 
delight  in  the  new  green  of  the  leaves  and  the  return  of  singing  birds — a 
delight  as  simple  as  that  of  Robin  Hood.  He  has  never  so  much  as 
heard  of  the  'burthen  and  the  mystery  of  all  this  unintelligible  world.' 
He  himself  sings  more  like  a  bird  than  any  other  poet,  because  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  to  do  so.  He  pours  himself  out  in  sincere 
joy  and  thankfulness.  The  pleasure  which  Chaucer  takes  in  telling  his 
stories  has  in  itself  the  effect  of  consummate  skill,  and  makes  us  follow 
all  the  windings  of  his  fancy  with  sympathetic  interest.  His  best  tales 
run  on  like  one  of  our  inland  rivers,  sometimes  hastening  a  little  and 
turning  upon  itself  in  eddies  that  dimple,  without  retarding,  the  current; 
sometimes  loitering  smootlily,  while  here  and  there  a  quiet  thought,  a 
tender  feeling,  a  pleasant  image,  or  a  golden  hearted  verse  opens  quietly 
as  a  water-lily,  to  float  on  the  surface  without  breaking  it  into  ripple. 

But  it  is  in  his  characters,  especially,  that  his  manner  is  large  and  free; 
for  he  is  painting  history,  though  with  the  fidelity  of  portrait.  He 
brings  out  strongly  the  essential  traits  characteristic  of  the  genus  rather 
than  of  the  individual.  The  Merchant  who  keeps  so  steady  a  counte 
nance  that  '  There  wist  no  wight  that  he  was  e'er  in  debt,'  the  Sergeant 
at  Law, '  wiio  seemed  busier  than  he  was,'  the  Doctor  gf  Medicine  whose 
*  study  was  but  little  on  the  Bible ' — in  all  these  cases  it  is  the  type  and 
not  the  personage  that  fixes  the  attention.  In  his  outside  accessories,  it 
is  true  he  sometimes  seems  as  minute  as  if  he  were  illuminating  a  missal. 
Nothing  escapes  his  eye  for  the  picturesque — the  cut  of  the  beard,  the 
soil  of  armor  on  the  buff  jerkin,  the  rust  on  the  sword,  the  expression 
of  the  eye.  But  in  this  he  has  an  artistic  purpose.  It  is  here  that  he 
individualizes,  and,  while  every  touch  harmonizes  with  and  seems  to 


60  Literature  of  Period  II.,  1066-1400. 

complete  the  moral  features  of  the  character,  makes  us  feel  that  we  are 
among  living  men  and  not  the  abstracted  images  of  men." — /.  R,  Lowell. 

Bibliography.  Chaucer.— C/iawce?-  Society'' s  Publications ;  Clar.  Press  Ed.  of 
Canterbury  Tales ;  Prof.  Lounsbury's  Parlament  of  Foules  ;  English  Men  of  Letters 
Series;  Minto's  Characteristics  of  Eng.  Poets;  J.  R.  Lowell's  My  Study  Windows  ; 
Ward's  Anthology  ;  Eel.  Mag.,  1849,  and  Dec,  1866;  Fort.  Rev.,  v.  6, 1866;  Quar.  Rev., 
Jan.,  1873;  West.  Rev.,  Oct ,  1871. 

Lessoist  11. 

From  Chaucer's  Prologue  to  Canterbury  Tales* 
Byfel'  that,  in  that  sesoun  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard,'-'  as  I  lay 
Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage, 
At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelrie 
Wei  2  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  compainye 
Of  soudry  folk,  by  aventure  i-falle* 
In  felaweschipe,  and  pilgryms  were  thei  alle, 
That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde; 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde, 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste.^ 
And  schortly,  whan  the  sonn6  was  to  reste. 
So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everychou® 
That  I  was  of  heie''  fslaweschipe  anon, 
And  mad{5  forward  ^  erly  for  to  ryse 
To  take  our  wey  ther  as  I  yow  devyse. 
But  natheles,^  whil  I  have  tyme  and  space, 
Or^o  that  I  forther  in  this  tale  pace," 
Me  thinketh  it  acordaunt  to  resoun, 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 
Of  eche  of  hem,  so  as  it  semede  me, 
And  whiche'2  they  weren  and  of  what  degre.** 

A  Clcrk'^  ther  was  of  Oxenford  ^^  also, 
That  unto  logik  hadde  longe  i-go.^^ 


*  Syllables  containing  e  with  a  diaeresis  (e)  are  to  be  pronounced  in  reading  and 
scanning. 

lit  chanced.  '  An  inn  in  Southwark.  'Full.  «  Fallen  by  chance.  «  Entertained 
in  the  best  manner.  sThem.  everyone.  'Their.  "Agreement.  » Nevertheless. 
10  Ere.  11  Pass  on.  12  Who.  1  a  Rank.  1*  Student,  is  Oxford.  i«  Had  long  given 
himself— i  a  prefix  used  to  indicate  the  past  participle,  the  ge  ot  the  A.S.  and  the 
German,  and  the  y  in  yclept  and  ychained. 


Poetry — Chaucer' s.  61 


As  len6  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 

And  lie  was  not  right  fat,  I  undertake ; 

But  lokede  hoi  we,  ^  and  therto^  soberly. 

Ful  thredbare  was  his  overeste  courtepy.^ 

For  he  hadde  geten  him  yit  no  benefice, 

Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  office.'* 

For  him  was  levere^  have  at  his  beddes  heede 

Twenty  bookSs,  clad  in  blak  or  reede, 

Of  Aristotle  and  his"  philosophic. 

Then  robes  riche  or  fithele^  or  gay  sawtrie.'' 

But  al  be^  that  he  was  a  philosophre. 

Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre ; 

But  al  that  he  mighte  of  his  frendes  hente^ 

On  bookes  and  on  lernyng  he  it  spente. 

And  busily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 

Of  hem  that  gaf  him  wherwith  to  scoleye.'<> 

Of  studie  took  he  most  cure'^  and  most  heede. 

Not  00  word  spak  he  more  than  was  neede. 

And  that  was  seid  in  forme  and  reverence 

And  schort  and  quyk  and  ful  of  high  sentence.^* 

Sownynge  in'^  moral  vertu  was  his  speche, 

And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne  and  gladly  teche. 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun, 
And  was  a  pourS  Persoun'*  of  a  toun ; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  werk. 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk 
That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche; 
His  parischens^^  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benigne  he  was  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversite  ful  pacient; 
And  such  he  was  i-proved  ofte  sithes.'* 
Ful  loth  were  him  to  curse  for  his  tythes,^' 
But  rather  wolde  he  geven  out  of  dowte 
Unto  his  poure  parisschens  aboute 
Of  his  offrynge^^  and  eek  of  his  substaunce. 
He  cowde  in  litel  thing  han  suffisaunce. 

»  H  How.  2  Also.  3  Uppermost  short  cloak.  *  Secular  calling.  »  Rather.  "  Fid- 
dle. ''  Harp.  8  Although— philosophers  were  thought  to  be  able  to  transmute  the 
baser  metals  into  gold.  ^  Get.  i"  Attend  school.  "Care.  >2]yieaning.  ^^  Tending 
to.  1*  Parson,  priest,  i*  Parishioners.  '«  Of  ten-times,  i'^  Excommunicate  for  fail- 
ing to  pay  what  was  due  him.     i^  Contributions  from  his  people. 


62  Literature  of  Period  II.,  1066-1400. 

Wyd  was  his  parische,  and  houses  fer  asonder, 

But  he  ne  lafte'  not  for  reyne  ue  thonder, 

In  siknesse  nor  in  meschief  *  to  visite 

The  ferreste  in  his  parissche,  moche  and  lite,^ 

Uppon  his  feet,  and  in  his  liond  a  staf. 

This  noble  ensample  to  liis  scheep  he  gaf, 

That  first  he  wroughte,  and  afterward  he  taught. 

Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordSs  caughte, 

And  this  figure  he  addede  eek  therto 

That  if  gold  ruste,  what  schal  yren  doo? 

Wei  oughte  a  prest  ensample  for  to  give 

By  his  clennesse  how  that  his  scheep  schulde  lyve. 

He  sette  not  his  benefice  to  hyre, 
And  leet'*  his  scheep  encombred  in  the  myre, 
And  ran  to  Londone,  unto  seynte  Poules, 
To  seeken  him  a  chaunterie^  for  soules, 
Or  with  a  bretherhede  to  ben  withholde;^ 
Bat  dwelte  at  hoora,  and  kepte  wel  his  folde, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  myscarye; 
He  was  a  schepherde  and  no  mercenarie. 
And  though  he  holy  were  and  vertuous, 
He  was  to  sinful  man  nought  despitous,' 
Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous  ne  digne,^ 
But  in  his  teching  discret  and  benigne. 
To  drawe  folk  to  heven  by  fairnesse, 
By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  busynesse: 
But  "it  were^  eny  persone  obstinat, 
What  so  he  were,  of  high  or  lowe  estat, 
Him  wolde  he  snybbe"^  scharply  for  the  nones." 
A  bettre  preest  I  trowe  ther  nowher  non  is. 
He  waytede  after  no  pompe  and  reverence 
Ne  makede  him  a  spiced '^  conscience, 
But  Cristes  lore^^  and  his  apostles  twelve 
He  taughte,  but  first  he  folwede  it  himselve 

1  Ceased.  2  Misfortune.  »  Great  and  small.  -•  Let,  left.  «  An  endowment  for  the 
payment  of  a  priest  to  sing  mass.  «  Supported.  ">  Merciless.  ^  Not  affable,  dis- 
dainful.   » If  there  were,    i"  Reprove.    "Nonce.    12  scrupulous,    is  Teaching. 


Poetry — Chaucer^  s. 


From  the  Nonne  Prestes^  Tale. 

A  poure  wydow  sonidel  stope^  in  age 

Was  whilom  dwellyng  in  a  narwe  cotage 

Bisyde  a  grove,  stondyng  in  a  dale. 

This  wydwe  of  which  I  telle  yow  my  tale 

Syne  thilke^  day  that  sche  was  last  a  wif 

In  pacience  ladde  a  fill  symple  lyf, 

For  litel  was  hire  catel*  and  hire  rente. ^ 

By  housbondrye*  of  such  as  God  hire  sente, 

Sche  fond''  hireself  and  eek  hire^doughtreu  tuo.^ 

Thre  large  sowes  hadde  sche  and  no  mo, 

Thre  kyn  and  eek  a  scheep  thet  highte^  Malle. 

Fill  sooty  was  hire  bour^^  and  eek  hire  halle, 

In  which  she  eet  ful  many  a  scleuder  meel. 

Of  poynaunt^*  sawce  hire  needede  never  a  deelJ* 

No  deynte  morsel  passede  thurgh  hire  throte; 

Hire  dyete  was  accordant  to  hire  cote.'^ 

Repleccioun  ne  made  hire  nevere  sik; 

Attempre^'*  dyete  was  al  hire  phisik 

And  exercise  and  hertes  sufSsaunce.'^ 

The  goute  lette^^  hire  nothing  for  to  daunce. 

Hire  bord  '^  was  served  most  with  whit  and  blak, 

Milk  and  broun  bred,  in  which  sche  fond  no  lak. 

A  yerd  '*  sche  hadde,  enclosed  al  aboute 
"With  stikkes  and  a  dry6  dich  withoute, 
In  which  she  hadde  a  cok,  highte  Chauntecleer; 
In  al  the  londj  of  crowyng  nas'^  his  peer. 
His  vois  was  merier  than  the  merye  orgoii'^''. 
On  masse  dayes  that  in  the  chirche  goon.'-*^ 
Wei  sikerer^"^  was  his  crowyng  in  his  logge 
Than  is  a  clok  or  an  abbay  orlogge.'^^     • 
By  nature  knew  he  ech  ascencioun 
^  Of  equinoxiaP-*  in  thilke  toun; 

For  whan  degrees  fyftene  were  ascended, 
Thanue  crew^s  he  that  it  mighte  not  ben  amended, 

1  Nun's  Priest.  "^  Somewhat  advanced.  ^  Since  that.  *  Wealth.  ^  income. 
*  Economy.  ''  Supported,  »  Two  daughters.  »  Was  called,  i"  Inner  room.  ^ '  Pun- 
%eTit.  "Never  a  whit.  ^^  Cottage,  i*  Spare.  '^  Contented  mind,  >«  Gout  hindered, 
'T  Table,  i^Yard.  i^Was  not,  ^o  organ  or  organs.  21  Qq.  sounds  or  sound. 
"'  Much  surer,  "s  Abbey -clock,  clock  in  the  tower.  24  Kjiew  each  hour.  *6  Then  he 
crowed,  that  is,  each  hour,  as  the  sun  climbs  15°  -an  hour. 


64  Literature  of  Period  II.,  1066-1400. 

His  comb  was  redder  than  the  fyn  coral, 
And  bataylld  ^  as  it  were  a  castel  wal. 
His  bile^  was  blak,  and  as  the  geet  ^  it  schon ; 
Like  asure*  were  bis  legg(^s  and  his  ton  f 
His  nayles  whitter  than  the  lilye  tlour,® 
And  lik  the  burnischt  gold  was  his  colour. 

This  gentil  cok  hadde  in  his  governaunce 
Sevene  hennes  for  to  don  al  his  pleasaunce, 
Whiche  were  his  sustres  and  his  paramoures, 
And  wonder'  like  to  him  as  of  coloures, 
Of  whiche  the  faireste  hewed  ^  on  hire  throte 
Was  clep(id  ^  f ayre  damoysele  Pertelote. 
Curteys'"  sclie  was,  discret,  and  debonaire,^^ 
And  compainable,^"^  and  bar  hire  self  ful  faire 
Syn  thilke  day  that  sche  was  seven  night  old 
That  trewely  sche  hath  the  herte  in  hold 
Of  Chauntecleer  loken  in  every  lith;'^ 
He  lovede  hire  so  that  wel  him  was  therwith. 
But  such  a  joye  was  it  to  here  hem  synge, 
Whan  that  the  bright^  sonne  gan  to  springe 
In  swete  accord,  "my  lief  is  faren  on  londe,"'* 
For  thilk(5  tyme,  as  I  have  uuderstonde, 
Bestes  and  briddes  cowde  speke  and  synge. 

And  so  byfel  that  in  a  dawenynge. 
As  Cbauntecleer  among  his  wyv6s  alle 
Sat  on  his  perch{3,  that  was  in  the  halle, 
And  next  him  sat  this  faire  Pertelote, 
This  Chauntecleer  gan  gronen  in  his  throte 
As  man  that  in  his  dreem  is  dreeched  '^  sore. 
And  whan  that  Pertelote  thus  herde  him  rore, 
Sche  was  agast,'^  and  sayde,  "  O  herte  deere. 
What  eyleth*''  you  to  grone  in  this  manere? 
Ye  ben  a  verray  sleper,  fy,  for  schame!" 
And  he  answerde  and  sayde  thus,  "Madame, 
I  praye  you  that  ye  take  it  nought  agrief. 
Me  mette^^  how  that  I  romede  up  and  doun 

» Indented,  as  a  castle  wall  seems  to  be  with  its  turrets.  ^  Bill.  ^  Jet.  ■•  Azui-e 
^Toes.  « Flower.  ''Wonderfully,  s  Colored.  » Called.  "Courteous.  "Gra- 
cious. 12  Sociable.  ^^  Locked  in  every  limb,  bound  to  her  in  every  muscle,  i*  My 
beloved  is  gone  away— from  some  popular  song.  ^^  Troubled.  i«  Afraid.  I'^Ails. 
18 1  dreamed. 


Poetry — Chaucer^  s.  65 

Withinne  oure  yerde,  wlier  as^  I  saugh  a  beest, 
Was  lik  an  hound,  and  wolde  han  maad  areest'^ 
Upon  my  body  and  wolde  ban  had  me  deed. 
His  colour  was  bitwixe  yelwe  and  reed; 
And  tipped  was  his  tail  and  bothe  his  eeres 
With  blak,  unlik  the  remenaunt  of  his  heres; 
His  snowte  smal,  with  glowyng  eyen  tweye.* 
Yet  of  his  look  for  feere  almost  I  deye ; 
This  causede  me  my  gronyng  douteles." 
"  Avoy!"  quod^  sche,  "  fy  on  yow  hertelesi 
Alias!"  quod  sche,  "for,  by  that  God  above, 
Now  han  ye  lost  myn  herte  and  al  my  love ; 
I  can  nought  love  a  coward,  by  my  feith. 
For,  certes,^  what  so  eny  womman  seith, 
We  alle  desiren,  if  it  mighte  be, 
To  han  housbondes  hardy,  wise,  and  fre, 
And  secre,^  and  no  nygard,  ne  no  fool, 
Ne  him  tliat  is  agast  of  every  tool,^ 
Ke  noon  avauntour,^  by  that  God  above. 
How  dorste  ye  sayn  for  schame  unto  youre  love 
That  any  thing  mighte  make  yow  aferd? 
Han  ye  no  mann6s  herte,  and  han  a  herd?" 

Whan  that  the  moneth  in  which  the  world  bigan 
That  highte^  March,  whan  God  first  made  man, 
Was  complet,  and  y-passed  were  also, 
Syn  March  bygan,  thritty  dayes  and  tuo, 
Byfel  that  Chauntecleer  in  al  his  pride. 
His  seven  wyv6s  walkyng  him  by  syde, 
Caste  up  his  eyghen  to  the  brighte  sonne 
That  in  the  signe  of  Taurus  hadde  i-ronne 
Twenty  degrees  and  oon,  and  somewhat  more ; 
He  knew  by  kynde,^°  and  by  noon  other  lore. 
That  it  was  prime,"  and  crew  with  blisful  stevene.'* 
"  The  Sonne,"  he  sayde,  "  is  clomben  up  on  hevene 
Fourty  degrees  and  oon,  and  more  i-wis.''* 
Madame  Pertelote,  my  worldes  blis^ 
Herkneth  these  blisful  briddes  how  they  synge, 
And  seth  the  fressche  floures  how  they  springe; 

1  "Where.     ^  Attack.     3  Two  eyes.     *  Fie !  said,     s  Certainly.     « Secret.    ">  Weap- 
a.    8  Boaster.    » Is  called.    "Nature.    "  Nine  o'clock,    invoice,    is  Truly. 


Literature  of  Period  II,  1066-1400. 

Ful  is  myn  hert  of  revel  and  solaas," 
But  sodeiuly  him  fel  a  sorwef ul  caas  ■} 
For  evere  the  latter  ende  of  joye  is  wo. 
God  wot'^  that  worldly  joye  is  soone  ago. 

A  coP-fox,  ful  of  sleigh  iniquite, 
That  in  the  grove  hadde  won6d*  yerGs  thre, 
By  heigh  ymaginacioun  forncast,^ 
The  same  nighte  thurghout  the  hegg6s  brast® 
Into  the  yerd,  ther''  Chauntecleer  the  faire 
Was  wont,  and  cek  his  wyves,  to  repaire; 
And  in  a  bed  of  wort6s^  stille  he  lay 
Til  it  was  passed  undern^  of  the  day, 
Waytyng  his  tyme  on  Chauntecleer  to  falle, 
As  gladly  doon  these  homicides  alle. 

This  Chauntecleer,  whan  he  gan  him  espye. 
He  wolde  han  fled,  but  that  the  fox  anon 
Saide,  "  Gentil  sire,  alias!  wher  wol  ye  goon? 
Be  ye  affrayd  of  me  that  am  youre  freend? 
Now,  certes,  I  were  worse  than  a  feend, 
If  I  to  yow  wolde^''  harm  or  vileynye. 
I  am  nought  come  youre  counsail  for  tespye. 
But  trewely  the  cause  of  my  comynge 
Was  oonly  for  to  herkne  how  that  ye  singe. 
My  lord,  youre  fader,  (God  his  soule  blesse) 
And  eek  youre  moder  of  hire  gentilesse 
Han  in  myn  hous  i-been  to  my  gret  ese;  . 
And,  certes,  sire,  ful  fayn  wolde  I  yow  plese. 
But  for  men  speke  of  syngyng,  I  wol  saye. 
So  mot  I  brouke^i  wel  myn  eyen  twaye, 
Save  you,  I  herde  nevere  man  so  synge 
As  dede  youre  fader  in  the  morwenynge. 
Certes  it  was  of  herte  al  that  he  song. 
And  for  to  make  his  vols  the  more  strong, 
He  wolde  so  peyne  him^'^  that  with  bothe  his  eyen 
He  moste  wynke,  so  lowde  he  wolde  crien, 


1  Mishap.  2  Knows,  s  Crafty.  <  Dwelt.  ^  Preordained.  «  Burst.  "^  Where. 
9  Herbs.  » Time  of  the  mid -day  meal.  i°  Wished,  would  do.  ^i  So  may  I  enjoy. 
'2  Take  such  pains. 


Poetry — Chaucer,  67 


And  stonden  on  his  typtoon^  therwithal 
And  strecche  forth  his  nekke,  long  and  smal." 

This  Chauntecleer  stood  heighe  upon  his  toos, 

Strecching  his  nekke,  and  held  his  eyghen  cloos, 

And  gan  to  crow6  lowde  for  the  noones; 

And  daun  Russel,  the  fox,  sterte  up  at  oones, 

And  by  the  garget-'  hente  Chauntecleer, 

And  on  his  bak  toward  the  woode  him  beer. 

JL 

Certes,  such  cry  ne  lamentacioun  ^ 

Was  nevere  of  ladies  maad  whan  Ilioun 

Was  wonne,  and  Pirrus  with  his  streite^  swerd, 

Whan  he  hadde  hent  kyng  Priam  by  the  herd 

And  slayn  him  (as  saith  us  Eneydos), 

As  maden  alle  the  hennes  in  the  clos, 

Whan  they  hadde  seyn  of  Chauntecleer  the  sighte. 

But  soveraignly  dame  Pertelote  schrighte'* 

Ful  lowder  than  dide  Hasdrubales  wyf, 

Whan  that  hire  housbonde  hadde  lost  his  lyf. 

Lo.  how  fortune  torneth  sodeinly 
The  hope  and  pride  eek  of  hire  enemy  I 
This  cok  that  lay  upon  the  foxes  bak 
In  all  his  drede,  unto  the  fox  he  spak. 
And  saide,  "  Sire,  if  that  I  were  as  ye, 
Yet  schulde  I  sayn  (as  wis^  God  help6  me), 
*  Turneth  agein,  ye  proude  cherles  alle, 
A  verray  pestilens  upon  yow  falle ! 
Now  am  I  come  unto  this  woodes  syde, 
Maugre^  youre  heed,  the  cok  schal  heer  abyde; 
I  wol  him  ete,  in  faith,  and  that  anoon,' " 
The  fox  answerede,  "  In  faith,  it  schal  be  doon." 
And  as  he  spak  that  word,  al  sodeinly 
This  cok  brak  from  his  mouth  delyverly,' 
And  heigh  upon  a  tree  he  fleigh  anoon. 
And  whan  the  fox  seigh  that  he  was  i-goon, 
"  Alias!"  quod  he,  "  O  Chauntecleer,  alias! 
I  have  to  yow,"  quod  he,  "y-don  trespas, 
In-as-moche  as  I  makede  yow  aferd, 
Whan  I  yow  hente,  and  broughte  out  of  the  yerd ; 

Tip-toes.    3  Throat.   '  Drawn.    ■«  Shrieked.    ^  as  truly.    « In  spite  of.    i  Quickly. 


68  Literature  of  Period  11.^  1066-1400. 

But,  sire,  1  dede  it  in  no  wikke  entente. 

Com  doun,  and  I  schal  telle  yow  what  I  mente. 

I  schal  seye  soth  to  yow,  God  help  me  so." 

"  Nay  than,"  quod  he,  "I  schrewe^  us  bothe  tuo 

And  first  I  schrewe  myself,  bothe  blood  and  boones, 

If  thou  bigile  me  any  ofter  than  oones. 

Thou  schalt  no  more,  thurgh  thy  flaterye, 

Do^  me  to  synge,  and  wynke  with  myn  eye. 

For  he  that  wynketh  whan  he  scholde  see, 

Al  wilfully,  God  let  hirn  never  the^!" 

"  Nay,"  quod  the  fox,  "  but  God  give  him  meschaunce* 

That  is  so  undiscret  of  governaunce. 

That  jangleth  whan  he  scholde  holde  his  pees." 

Lo,  such  it  is  for  to  be  reccheles^ 
And  uecgligent  and  truste  on  flaterie. 
But  ye  that  holden  this  tale  a  folye, 
As  of  a  fox  or  of  a  cok  and  hen, 
Taketh  the  moralite  therof,  goode  men. 
For  seint  Poul  saith  that  al  that  writen  is 
To  oure  doctrine^  it  is  i- write  i-wys. 
Taketh  the  fruyt,  and  let  the  chaf  be  stille. 

Now  goode  God,  if  that  it  be  thy  wille 
As  saith  my  lord,  so  make  us  alle  good  men, 
And  bringe  us  to  his  heighG  blisse.     Amen. 

Further  Reading.— The  remainder  of  the  Prologue^  The  Knightes  Tale,  The  Tale 
of  the  Man  of  Laws,  The  Squieres  Tale,  The  Seconde  Nonnes  Tale,  and  The  Clerkes 
Tale,  in  the  Clarendon  Press  Series,  and  The  Parlament  of  Foules,  edited  by  Prof. 
Lounsbury.  Keep  the  pupils  with  Chaucer  till  they  in  some  degree  appreciate  the 
ease,  freshness,  simplicity,  sweetness,  tenderness,  good  sense,  good  humor,  and 
wholesomeness  of  his  writings.    For  questions,  see  Lesson  1. 


Scheme  for  Eeview. 


People  at  and  after  the  Conquest  36 
Scotland,    France,    and    Gun- 
powder   36 

Effect  of  the  Conquest  upon 

the  Language. . .   37 

Religious  Poetry — Ormin  and 

Langland ^ 39 

story-  j  Layamon  and  Others .  43 
Poetry.  I  John  Gower 45 


English  Lyrics 46 

History — Chroniclers 48 

Mandeville  and  Wyclif 49 

The  Kmg's  English. 51 

rHis  three  Periods  ...  52 
Chaucer.  \  His  Character, ......  55 

[His  Canterbury  Tales  56 
Criticism  of  him  and  Extracts 
from 58 


1  Curse,    s  Cause.    ^  Prosper.    *■  Misfortune.    *  Careless.    ^  Instruction. 


PEK.IOD   III. 

From  Chaucee's  Death  to  Elizabeth, 

1400-15 58. 


LiEssoisr  13. 

Brief  Historical  Sketch.— First  English  statute  enacting  religious  blood- 
shed was  that  against  the  Lollards,  followers  of  Wyclif,  1401.  Battle 
of  Agincourt,  by  which  Normandy  was  reconquered,  1415.  The  Hun- 
dred Years'  War  ended  and  France  delivered,  1451.  Joan  of  Arc  the 
French  leader,  1422-31.  Jack  Cade's  Revolt,  1450.  House  of  Lancaster 
—Hen.  IV.,  Hen.  V.,  and  Hen.  VL— 1399-1461.  House  of  York— Ed. 
IV.,  Ed.  v.,  and  Rich.  III.— 1461-1485.  War  of  the  Roses,  in  which 
the  castles  were  battered  down,  and  the  nobility  almost  destroyed, 
1452-1485,  At  its  close  on  Bosworth  Field,  the  Earl  of  Richmond,  a 
Lancastrian,  marries  Eliz.  of  York,  and  becomes  Hen.  VII.,  the  first 
Tudor  king.  At  the  taking  of  Constantinople  by  the  Turks,  1453  (they 
had  settled  in  Europe,  1356)  the  learned  scholars  studying  the  Greek 
manuscripts  there  fled  principally  to  Italy.  Disclosure  of  the  stores  of 
Greek  literature  wrought  the  Revival  of  Learning.  Caxton  set  up  the 
first  printing-press  in  England,  1476.  Only  the  gentry  ate  wheaten 
bread;  poorer  people  ate  bread  made  of  barley  or  rye,  sometimes  of 
peas,  beans,  or  oats.  Plaster  ceilings  not  yet  used.  Chimneys  intro- 
duced about  1485.  Discovery  of  America  by  Columbus,  1492.  Grocyn 
and  Colet  the  first  to  teach  Greek  in  England,  at  Oxford,  1490- 
1500.  Hen.  VIII.  succeeded  Hen.  VII.,  1509.  Erasmus  professor  of 
Greek  at  Cambridge,  1511.  Hen.  VIII.  fought  the  battle  of  Flodden 
Field  against  the  Scots,  1513.  Magellan  circumnavigated  the  earth,  1519. 
Hen.  VIII.  became  head  of  the  Eng.  Church,  1531.  First  pavement  in 
London,  1534.  Sir  Thomas  More  beheaded  for  refusing  to  take  the 
Oath  of  Supremacy  to  Hen.  VIII.,  1535.  Dissolution  of  monasteries  in 
England,  1536-9.  Rebellion  in  Ireland  crushed,  1535,  and  in  1541  Hen. 
VIII.  received  the  title  "King  of  Ireland."  During  Ed.  VI. 's  reign, 
1547-53,  English  prayer-book  prepared  by  Cranmer.  Under  Mary, 
1553-8,  English  Church  again  acknowledges  the  pope,  and  persecution 
of  heresy  is  resumed, 


70  Literature  of  Period  III,,  1400-1558. 


Lessoist  13. 

The  Fifteenth  Century  Prose.— '^  The  last  poems  of 
Chaucer  and  Langland  bring  our  story  up  to  the  year  1400. 
The  century  that  followed  is  the  most  barren  in  the  literature. 
History  sank  down  into  a  few  Latin  chroniclers,  of  whom 
Thomas  Walsingham  is  best  known.  Two  Riming  Clironi- 
cles  were  written  in  Henry  V.'s  time  by  Andrew  of  Wyj^^toun, 
a  Scotchman,  and  John"  Hardi:n"G,  an  Englishman.  JoHif 
Oapgrave  wrote  in  English,  in  Edward  IV. 's  reign,  a  Chroni- 
cle of  England  which  began  with  the  Creation.  Political  prose 
is  then  represented  by  Sir  Joh?^  Fortescue's  book  on  the 
Difference  between  Absolute  mid  Limited  Monarchy.  It  is  the 
second  important  book  in  the  history  of  English  prose.  The 
religious  war  between  the  Lollards  and  the  Church  went  on 
during  the  reigns  of  Henry  V.  and  VI.,  and,  in  the  reign  of  the 
latter,  Reginald  Pecock  took  it  out  of  Latin  into  homely 
English.  He  fought  the  Lollards  with  their  own  weapons, 
with  sermons  preached  in  English,  and  with  tracts  in  Englisli; 
and  after  1449,  when  Bishop  of  Chichester,  he  published  his 
work  The  Repressor  of  overmuch  Bla7ning  of  the  Clergy.  It 
pleased  neither  party.  The  Lollards  disliked  it,  because  it  de- 
fended the  customs  and  doctrines  of  the  Church.  Churchmen 
burnt  it,  because  it  agreed  with  the  '  Bible-men '  that  the 
Bible  is  the  only  rule  of  faith.  Both  abjured  it,  because  it 
said  that  doctrines  were  to  be  proved  from  the  Bible  by  reason. 
Pecock  is  the  first  of  all  the  Church  theologians  who  wrote  in 
English,  and  the  book  is  a  fine  example  of  early  prose. 

Growth  of  Interest  in  Literature. — Little  creative  work 
was  done  in  this  century,  and  that  little  was  poor.  There  was 
small  learning  in  the  monasteries,  and  few  books  were  writ- 
ten. But  a  good  deal  of  interest  in  literature  was  scattered 
about  the  country,  and  it  increased  as  the  century  went  on. 
The  Wars  of  the  Roses  stopped  the  writing,  but  not  the  reacj- 


Fifteenth  Century  Prose.  71 

ing,  of  books.  We  have  in  the  Paston  Letters^  1422-1505, 
the  correspondence  of  a  country  family  from  Henry  VI.  to 
Henry  VII.,  pleasantly,  even  correctly,  written — passages 
which  refer  to  translations  of  the  classics,  and  to  manuscripts' 
being  sent  to  and  fro  for  reading.  Henry  VI.,  Edward  IV. ,  and 
some  of  the  great  nobles  were  lovers  of  books.  Men  like  Duke 
Humphrey  of  Gloucester  made  libraries,  and  brought  over 
Italian  scholars  to  England  to  translate  Greek  works.  There 
were  fine  scholars  in  England,  like  John  Lord  Tiptoft,  Earl 
of  Worcester,  who  had  won  fame  in  the  schools  of  Italy.  Be- 
fore 1474,  when  Caxton  finished  the  first  book  said  to  have 
been  printed  in  England,  The  Game  and  Playe  of  the  Chesse, 
a  number  of  French  translations  of  the  Latin  authors  were 
widely  read.  There  was,  therefore,  in  England,  a  general, 
though  an  uninformed,  interest  in  the  ancient  writers. 

FiEST  Influence  of  the  Italian  Eevival.— Such  an  in- 
terest was  added  to  by  the  revival  of  letters  which  arose  at  this 
time  in  Italy,  and  the  sixteenth  century  had  not  long  begun 
before  many  Englishmen  went  to  Italy  to  read  and  study  the 
old  Greek  authors  on  whom  the  scholars  driven  from  Constan- 
tinople, at  its  capture  by  the  Turks  in  1453,  were  lecturing  in 
the  schools  of  Florence.  Printing  enabled  these  men  on  their 
return  to  render  the  classic  books  they  loved,  into  English  for 
their  own  people.  The  English  began  to  do  their  own  work 
as  translators ;  and,  from  the  time  of  Henry  VIII.  onwards, 
there  is  scarcely  any  literary  fury  equal  to  that  with  which 
the  young  scholars  fell  upon  the  ancient  authors,  and 
filled  the  land  with  English  versions  of  them.  It  is,  then,  in 
the  slow  upgrowth,  during  this  century,  of  interest  in  and 
study  of  the  ancients  that  we  are  to  see  the  gathering  together 
at  its  source  of  one  of  the  streams  which  fed  that  great  river 
of  Elizabethan  literature,  which  it  is  so  great  a  mistake  to 
think  burst  suddenly  up  through  the  earth. 

Influence  of  Caxton's  Work. — We  find  another  of  these 
sources  in  the  work  of  our  first  printer,  William  Caxtoi^. 


72  Literature  of  Period  III.,  1400-1558. 

The  first  book  that  bears  the  inscription,  ^Imprynted  by  me, 
William  Oaxton,  at  Westmynstre,'  is  Tlie  Dictes  and  Sayings 
of  Philosophers.  Caxton  did  little  or  nothing  for  classical 
learning.  His  translation  of  the  jPiieid  of  Vergil  is  from 
a  contemptible  French  romance.  But  he  preserved  for  us 
Chaucer  and  Lydgate  and  Gower  with  zealous  care.  He 
printed  the  Chronicles  of  Brut  and  Higden  ;  he  translated  the 
Golden  Legend:  and  the  Morte  d^ Arthur ,  written  by  Sir 
Thomas  Malory  in  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.,  one  of  the  finest 
and  simplest  examples  of  early  prose,  was  printed  by  him  with 
all  the  care  of  one  who  loved  the  '  noble  acts  of  chivalry.'  He 
had  a  tradesman's  interest  in  publishing  the  romances,  for 
they  were  the  reading  of  the  day,  but  he  could  scarcely  have 
done  better  for  the  interests  of  the  coming  literature.  These 
books  nourished  the  imagination  of  England,  and  supplied 
poet  after  poet  with  fine  subjects  for  work  or  fine  frames  for 
their  subjects.  He  had  not  a  tradesman's,  but  a  loving  literary, 
interest  in  printing  the  old  English  poets ;  and,  in  sending 
them  out  from  his  press,  Caxton  kept  up  the  continuity  of 
English  poetry.  The  poets  after  him  at  once  began  on  the 
models  of  Chaucer  and  Gower  and  Lydgate  ;  and  the  books 
themselves,  being  more  widely  read,  not  only  made  poets  but 
a  public  that  loved  poetry.  If  classic  literature,  then,  was 
one  of  the  sources  in  this  century  of  the  Elizabethan  literature, 
the  recovery  of  old  English  poetry  was  another. 

Pkose  under  Henry  VIII. — With  the  exception  of  Caxton's 
work  all  the  good  prose  of  the  fifteenth  century  was  written 
before  the  death  of  Edward  IV.  The  reigns  of  Richard  III. 
and  of  Henry  VII.  produced  no  prose  of  any  value,  but  the 
country  awakened  from  its  dulness  with  the  accession  of  Henry 
VIII.,  1509.  A  band  of  new  scholars,  who  had  studied  in 
Italy,  taught  Greek  in  Oxford,  Cambridge,  and  London.  John 
Colet,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  with  John  Lily,  the  grammarian, 
set  on  foot  a  school  where  the  classics  were  taught  in  a  new 
and  practical  way.     Erasmus,  who  had  all  the  enthusiasm 


Prose  under  Henry  VIII.  73 

which  sets  others  on  fire,  taught  in  England,  and  with  Grocyn, 
Linacre,  Sir  Thomas  More,  and  Archbishop  Warham  formed 
a  centre  from  which  a  liberal  and  wise  theology  was  spread. 

The  new  learning  which  had  been  born  in  Italy,  and  which 
these  men  represented  in  England,  stirred  and  gave  life  to 
everything,  and  woke  up  English  Prose  from  its  sleej).  Much 
of  the  new  life  of  English  Literature  was  due  to  the  patronage 
of  the  young  king.  It  was  Henry  VIII.  who  supported  Sir 
Thomas  Elyot,  and  encouraged  him  to  write  books  in  the 
vulgar  tongue  that  he  might  delight  his  countrymen.  It  was 
the  king  who  asked  Lord  -Berners  to  translate  Froissart,  a 
book  which  ^  made  a  landmark  in  our  tongue,'  and  who  made 
Leland,  our  first  English  writer  on  antiquarian  subjects,  the 
*  King's  Antiquary.'  It  was  the  king  to  whom  Eoger  Ascham 
dedicated  his  first  work,  and  the  king  sent  him  abroad  to 
pursue  his  studies.  This  book,  the  Toxophilus,  or  the  School 
of  Shooting,  1545,  was  written  for  the  pleasure  of  the  yeomen 
and  gentlemen  of  England,  in  their  own  tongue.  Ascham 
apologizes  for  this,  and  the  apology  marks  the  state  of  English 
prose.  *  Everything  has  been  done  excellently  in  Greek  and 
Latin,  but  in  the  English  tongue  so  meanly  that  no  man  can 
do  worse.'  He  has  done  his  work  well,  and  in  quaint  but 
charminsr  Eno^lish. 

Prose  and  the  Reformation.— But  the  man  who  did  best 
in  English  prose  was  Sir  Thomas  More  in  the  earliest  Eng- 
lish history,  the  History  of  Edivard  V.  and  Richard  III.  The 
simplicity  of  his  genius  showed  itself  in  the  style,  and  his  wit 
in  the  picturesque  method  and  the  dramatic  dialogue  that 
graced  the  book.  English  prose  grew  larger  and  richer  under 
his  pen,  and  began  that  stately  step  which  future  historians 
followed.  The  work  is  said  to  have  been  written  in  1513,  but 
it  was  not  printed  till  1557.  The  most  famous  book  More 
wrote.  The  Utopia,  was  not  written  in  English.  The  most 
famous  controversy  he  had  was  with  William  Tyndale,  a 
man  who  in  his  translation  of  the  New  Testament,  1525, 


74  Literature  of  Period  III.,  1400-1558. 

'  fixed  our  tongue  once  for  all.'  His  style  was  as  purely  Eng- 
lish as  More's,  and  of  what  kind  it  was  may  be  read  in  our 
Bibles,  for  our  authorized  yersion  is  still  in  great  part 
his  translation.  In  this  work,  Tyndale  was  assisted  by 
William  Roy,  a  runaway  friar  ;  his  friend  Rogers,  the  first 
martyr  in  Mary's  reign,  added  to  it  a  translation  of  the 
Apocrypha,  and  made  up  what  was  wanting  in  Tyn dale's 
translation  from  Chronicles  to  Malachi,  out  of  Covekdale's 
translation. 

It  was  this  Bible  which,  revised  by  Coverdale  and  edited 
and  re-edited  as  CromwelVs  Bihle,  1539,  and  again  as 
Cranmefs  Bihle,  1540,  was  set  up  in  every  parish  church 
in  England.  It  got  north  into  Scotland  and  made  the  Low- 
land English  more  like  the  London  English,  and,  after  its 
revisal  in  1611,  went  with  the  Puritan  fathers  to  New  England, 
and  fixed  the  standard  of  English  in  America.  There  is  no 
other  book  which  has  had  so  great  an  influence  on  the  style  of 
English  literature.  In  Edward  VI. 's  reign  Cranmer  edited 
the  English  Prayer  Booh,  1549-52.  Its  English  is  a  good 
deal  mixed  with  Latin  words,  and  its  style  is  sometimes  weak 
and  heavy,  but,  on  the  whole,  it  is  a  fine  example  of  stately 
prose.  Latimer,  on  the  contrary,  whose  Sermon  on  the 
Ploughers  and  other  sermons  were  delivered  in  1549  and  in 
1552,  wrote  in  a  plain,  shrewd  style,  which  by  its  humor  and 
rude  directness  made  him  the  first  preacher  of  his  day." 

Bibliography.  Caxton  and  More.— I.  Disraeli's  ^memh'es  of  Lit.;  Q.  Knight's 
Old  Printer  and  Mod.  Press  ;  Mackintosh's  Life  of  More ;  J.  Campbell's  Lord 
Chan,  of  Eng.;  F.  Myers'  Lectures  on  Great  Men;  E.  Lodge's  Portraits; 
Froude's  Hist,  of  Eng.;  Fort.  Rev.,  v.  9,  1868,  and  v.  14,  1870;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  30,  1859. 

I^ESSOIST  14. 
The  Fifteenth  Century  Poetry. — ''  The  only  literature 
which  reached  any  strength  was  poetijsal,  but  even  that  is 
almost  wholly  confined  to  the  reign  of  Henry  VI.  The  new 
day  of  poetry  still  went  on,  but  its  noon  in  Chaucer  was  now 
succeeded  by  the   grey  afternoon  of  Lydgate,  and  the  dull 


Fifteenth  Century  Poetry.  75 

twilight  of  Occleve.  Johk  Lydgate,  a  monk  of  Bury,  who 
was  thirty  years  of  age  when  Chaucer  died,  wrote  nothing  of 
importance  till  Henry  VI. 's  reign.  Though  a  long-winded 
and  third-rate  poet,  he  was  a  delightful  man  ;  fresh,  natural, 
and  happy  even  to  his  old  age,  when  he  recalls  himself  as  a 
boy  ^weeping  for  nought,  and  anon  after  glad.'  There  was 
scarcely  any  literary  work  he  could  not  do.  He  rhymed  his- 
tory, ballads,  and  legends  till  the  monastery  was  delighted. 
He  made  pageants  for  Henry  VI.,  masks  and  May-games  for 
aldermen,  mummeries  for  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  satirical  bal- 
lads on  the  follies  of  the  day.  Educated  at  Oxford,  a  traveller 
in  France  and  Italy,  he  knew  the  literature  of  his  time,  and 
he  even  dabbled  in  the  sciences.  He  enjoyed  everything, 
but  had  not  the  power  of  adequately  expressing  his  enjoyment. 
He  was  as  much  a  lover  of  nature  as  was  Chaucer,  but  he 
cannot  make  us  feel  the  beauty  of  nature  as  Chaucer  does. 
It  is  his  story-telling  which  brings  him  closest  to  Chaucer. 

His  three  chief  poems  are  the  Falls  of  Princes,  The 
Storie  of  Tliebes,  and  the  Troye  Booh.  The  first  is  a  transla- 
tion of  a  book  of  Boccaccio's.  It  tells  the  tragic  fates  of 
great  men  from  the  time  of  Adam  to  the  capture  of  King 
John  of  France,  at  Poitiers.  There  is  a  touch  of  the  drama 
in  the  plan,  which  was  suggested  by  the  pageants  of  the  time. 
The  dead  princes  appear  before  Boccaccio  pensive  in  his 
library,  and  each  relates  his  downfall.  The  Storie  of  Theles  is 
an  additional  Canterbury  Tale,  and  the  2\oye  Book  is  a  ver- 
sion from  the  French  of  the  prose  romance  of  Guido  della 
Colonna,  a  Sicilian  poet,  if  the  book  be  not  in  truth  origi- 
nally French.  The  Complaint  of  the  Black  Knight,  usually 
given  to  Chaucer,  is  stated  to  be  Lydgate's  by  Shirley,  the 
contemporary  of  him  and  of  Chaucer.  I  should  like  to  be  able 
to  call  him  the  author  of  the  pretty  little  poem  called  the 
Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale,  included  in  Chaucer's  works. 
But  its  authorship  is  unknown. 

Thomas  Occleve,  who  wrote  chiefly  in  Henry  V.'s  reign, 


76  Literature  of  Period  IIL,  1400-1558. 

about  1420,  was  nothing  but  a  bad  versifier.  His  one  merit  is 
that  he  loved  Chaucer.  With  his  loss  ^  the  whole  land  smart- 
ith/  he  says,  and  he  breaks  out  into  a  kind  of  rapture  once: — 

*Thou  wert  acquainted  with  Chaucer!  Pardie, 
God  save  his  soul, 
The  first  finder  of  our  faire  langage.' 

And  it  is  in  the  MS.  of  his  longest  poem,  Tlie  Governail  of 
Princes,  that  he  caused  to  be  drawn,  with  'fond  idolatry,'  the 
portrait  of  his  master.  With  this  long  piece  of  verse  we  mark 
the  decay  of  the  poetry  of  England.  Komances  and  lays 
were  still  translated  ;  there  were  verses  written  on  such  sub- 
jects as  hunting  and  alchemy.  Oaxton  himself  produced  a 
poem  ;  but  the  only  thing  here  worth  noticing  is,  that  at  the 
end  of  the  century  some  of  our  ballads  were  printed. 

Ballads,  lays,  and  fragments  of  romances  had  been  sung  in 
England  from  the  earliest  times,  and  popular  tales  and  jokes 
took  form  in  short  lyric  pieces  to  be  accompanied  by  music 
and  dancing.  We  have  seen  war  celebrated  in  Minot's  songs, 
and  the  political  ballad  is  represented  by  the  lampoon  made  by 
some  follower  of  Simon  de  Montfort  on  the  day  of  the  battle 
of  Lewes,  and  by  the  Elegy  on  Echvard  I.'s  Death.  But  the 
ballad  went  over  the  whole  land  among  the  people.  The 
trader,  the  apprentices,  the  poor  of  the  cities,  and  the  peas- 
antry had  their  own  songs.  They  tended  to  collect  them- 
selves round  some  legendary  name,  like  Eobin  Hood,  or  pme 
historical  character  made  legendary,  like  Eandolf,  Earl  of 
Chester.  Sloth,  in  Piers  Ploivman''s  Vision,  does  not  know 
his  paternoster,  but  he  does  know  the  rhymes  of  these  heroes. 

A  crowd  of  minstrels  sang  them  through  city  and  village. 
The  very  friar  sang  them,  *  and  made  his  Englissch  swete 
upon  his  tunge.'  A  collection  of  Robin  Hood  ballads  was  soon 
printed  under  the  title  of  A  Lytel  Geste  of  RoUn  Hood,  by 
Wynken  de  Worde.  The  Nut  Brown  Maid,  The  Battle  of 
Otterhurn,  and  Chevy  Chase  may  belong  to  the  end  of  the 


Chety  Chase,  77 


century,  though  probably  not  in  the  form  we  possess  them. 
It  was  not,  however,  till  much  later  that  any  collection  of 
ballads  was  made  ;  and  few,  as  we  possess  them,  can  be  dated 
farther  back  than  the  reign  of  Elizabeth." 

From  (Jhe'cy  Chase.     (Prof.  Child's  edition.) 
The  Pers^  owt  off  North ombarlande, 

And  a  vowe  to  God  mayd  he. 
That  he  wold  hunte  in  the  mountayns 

Off  Chj-^viat,  within  days  thre, 
In  the  mauger^  of  doughty  Dogles, 

And  all  that  ever  with  him  be. 

The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Cheviat 
He  sayd  he  wold  kill,  and  cary  them  away: 

"  Be  my  feth"  sayd  the  dougheti''  Doglas  agayn, 
•'  I  wyll  let3  that  hontyng  yf  that  I  may." 

Then  the  Pers^  owt  of  Banborowe  cam, 

With  him  a  myghte^  meany  f 
With  fifteen  hondrith  archares  bold  off  blood  and  bone, 

The  wear  chosen  owt  of  shyars  thre. 

He  sayd,  ' '  It  was  the  Duglas  promys 

This  day  to  met  me  hear; 
But  I  wyste^  he  wold  f aylle,  verament  :"* 

A  great  oth  the  Pers^  swear. 

At  the  laste  a  squyar  of  Northombelonde 

Lokyde  at  his  hand  full  ny; 
He  was  war  a"'  the  doughetie  Doglas  comynge, 

With  him  a  myghtt^  meany. 

The  dougheti  Dogglas  on  a  stede 

He  rode  att  his  men  beforne ; 
His  armor  glytteryde  as  dyd  a  glede;* 

A  bolder  barne®  was  never  born. 

"  Tell  me  whos  men  ye  ar,"  he  says, 

"  Or  whos  men  that  ye  be; 
Who  gave  youe  leave  to  hunte  in  this  Chyviat  chays. 

In  the  spyt  of  me?" 

»  Spite.  2  Doughty,  brave.  »  Hinder.  *  Company.  «  Knew. 

«  Truly.  ''Aware  of.  »  uve  coal.  »  Man. 


78         Literature  of  Period  III.,  1400-1558. 

The  first  mane  that  ever  him  an  answear  mayd, 

Yt  was  the  good  lord  Pers^ : 
"We  wyll  not  tell  the  whoys  men  we  ar,"  he  says, 

'  *  Nor  whos  men  thet  we  be ; 
But  we  wyll  hount  hear  in  this  chays, 

In  the  spyt  of  thyne  and  of  the.^ 

The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Chyviat 

We  have  kyld,  and  cast-  to  carry  them  a-way :" 
•'  Be  my  troth,"  sayd  the  doughty  Dogglas  agayn, 

•'  Ther-for  the  ton^  of  us  shall  de^  this  day." 

Then  say,d  the  doughty  Doglas 

Unto  the  lord  Pers^ : 
"  To  kyll  all  thes  giltles  men, 

Alas,  it  wear  great  pittd ! 

But,  Pers^,  thowe  art  a  lord  of  lande, 
I  am  a  yerle^  callyd  within  my  contrS; 

Let  all  our  men  uppone  a  parti**  stande, 
And  do  the  battell  off  the  and  of  me." 

Then  bespayke  a  squyar  off  Northombarlonde, 
'  Richard  Wytharyngton  was  him  nam; 

**  It  shall  never  be  told  in  Sothe-Ynglonde,"  he  says, 
"  To  kyng  Herry  the  fourth  for  sham. 

I  waf^  youe  byn  great  lordes  twaw, 

I  am  a  poor  squyar  of  lande ; 
I  wyll  never  se  my  captayne  fyght  on  a  fylde, 

And  stande  myselffe,  and  loocke  on, 
But  whyll  I  may  my  weppone  welde, 

I  wyll  not  [fayl]  both  hart  and  hande." 


At  last  the  Duglas  and  the  Persd  met, 
Lyk  to  captayns  of  myght  and  of  mayne; 

The  swapte^  togethar  tyll  the  both  swat,^ 
With  swordes  that  wear  of  fyn  myll^n.^"^ 


1  Thee.         2  propose,         » One.         *  Die.         » Earl.         « Apart,         ">  Know. 
8  They  smote.  *  Sweat.  1°  Milan  steel. 


Chetiy  Chase,  79 


With  that  ther  cam  an  arrowe  hastely, 

Forthe  off  a  myghttd  wane  ;^ 
Hit^  hathe  strekene  the  yerle  Duglas 

In  at  the  brest  bane. 

The  Pers^  leanyde  on  his  brande. 

And  sawe  the  Duglas  de; 
He  tooke  the  dede  mane  be  the  hande, 

And  sayd,  "Wo  ys  me  for  the!" 

Off  all  that  se  a  Skottishe  knyght, 
Was  callyd  Sir  He  we  the  Monggonbyrry,^ 

He  sawe  the  Duglas  to  the  detli  was  dyght,* 
He  spendyd  ^  a  spear,  a  trusti  tre.^ 

He  set  uppone  the  lord  Persfi 

A  dynte'^  that  was  full  soare ; 
With  a  suar^  spear  of  a  myghttS  tre 

Clean  thorow  the  body  he  the  Pers^  ber,' 

A'  the  tothar'"  syde  that  a  man  myght  se 

A  large  cloth  yard  and  mare: 
Towe  better  captayns  wear  nat  in  Cristiant^," 

Then  that  day  slain  wear  ther. 

This  battel!  begane  in  Chyviat 

An  owar^'-^  before  the  none, 
And  when  even-song  bell  was  rang, 

The  battell  was  not  half  done. 

Of  fifteen  hondrith  archars  of  Ynglonde 

Went  away  but  fif ti  and  thre ; 
Of  twenty  hondrith  spear-men  of  Skotlonde 

But  even  five  and  fifti. 

For  Wetharryngton  my  harte  was  wo, 

Thet  ever  he  slayne  shulde  be ; 
For  when  both  his  leggis  wear  hewyne  in  to, 

Yet  he  knyled  and  fought  od  hys  kny. 


*  One,  man.     'It.        '  Montgomery.       <  Done.      *  Grasped.      « Si)ear-shaft. 
» Blow.         8  Sure.       » Bare.         J°  The  other.       "Christendom.       "Hour. 


80         Literature  of  Period  IIL,  1400-1558. 


Lesson  15. 

Scottish  Poetry. — '^  This  is  poetry  written  in  the  English 
tongue  by  men  living  in  Scotland.  These  men,  though  call- 
ing themselves  Scotchmen,  are  of  good  English  blood.  But 
the  blood,  as  I  think,  was  mixed  with  an  infusion  of  Celtic 
blood. 

Old  Northumbria  extended  from  the  Humber  to  the  Firth 
of  Eorth,  leaving,  however,  on  its  western  border  a  line  of 
unconquered  land  which  took  in  Lancashire,  Cumberland, 
and  Westmoreland  in  England,  and  over  the  border  most  of 
the  western  country  between  the  Clyde  and  Solway  Firth. 
This  unconquered  country  was  the  Welsh  kingdom  of  Strath- 
clyde,  and  it  was  dwelt  in  by  the  Celtic  race.  The  present 
English  part  of  it  was  soon  conquered,  and  the  Celts  were 
driven  out.  But  in  the  part  to  the  north  of  the  Solway  Firth, 
the  Celts  were  not  driven  out.  They  remained,  lived  with  the 
Englishmen  who  were  settled  over  the  old  Northumbria,  inter- 
married with  them,  and  became  under  Scot  kings  one  mixed 
people.  Literature  in  the  Lowlands,  then,  would  have  Celtic 
elements  in  it ;  literature  in  England  was  purely  Teutonic. 
The  one  sprang  from  a  mixed,  the  other  from  an  unmixed 
race.  I  draw  attention  to  this,  because  it  seems  to  me  to 
account  for  certain  peculiarities  in  Scottish  poetry  which 
color  the  whole  of  it,  which  rule  over  it_,  and  are  specially 
Celtic. 

Celtic  Elements  of  Scottish  Poetry. — The /r^^  of  these 
is  the  love  of  wild  nature  for  its  own  sake.  There  is  a  pas- 
sionate, close,  and  poetical  observation  and  description  of 
natural  scenery  in  Scotland,  from  the  earliest  times  of  its 
poetry,  such  as  is  not  seen  in  English  poetry  till  the  time  of 
Wordsworth.  The  second  is  the  love  of  color.  All  early 
Scottish  poetry  differs  from  English  in  the  extraordinary  way 
in  which  color  is  insisted  on,  and  at  times  in  the  lavish  exag- 


Scottish  Poetry.  81 


geration  of  it.  The  third  is  the  wittier,  more  rollicking  humor 
in  the  Scottish  poetry,  which  is  distinctly  Celtic  in  contrast 
with  that  humor  which  has  its  root  in  sadness,  and  which 
belongs  to  the  Teutonic  races.  Few  things  are  really  more 
different  than  the  humor  of  Chaucer  and  the  humor  of  Dun- 
bar, than  the  humor  of  Cowper  and  that  of  Burns.  These 
are  the  special  Celtic  elements  in  the  Lowland  poetry. 

Its  National  Elements  came  into- it  from  the  circumstances 
under  which  Scotland  rose  into  a  separate  kingdom.  The 
first  of  these  is  the  strong,  almost  fierce,  assertion  of  national 
life.  The  English  were  as  national  as  the  Scots,  and  felt  the 
emotion  of  patriotism  as  strongly.  But  they  had  no  need  to 
assert  it;  they  were  not  oppressed.  But  for  nearly  forty  years 
the  Scotch  resisted  for  their  very  life  the  efforts  of  England  to 
conquer  them.  And  the  war  of  freedom  left  its  traces  on  their 
poetry  from  Barbour  to  Burns  and  Walter  Scott  in  the  almost 
obtrusive  way  in  which  Scotland  and  Scottish  liberty  and 
Scottish  heroes  are  thrust  forward  in  their  verse. 

Their  passionate  nationality  appears  in  another  form  in 
their  descriptive  poetry.  The  natural  description  of  Chaucer, 
Shakespeare,  or  even  Milton  is  not  distinctively  English.  But 
in  Scotland  it  is  always  the  scenery  of  their  own  land  that  the 
poets  describe.  Even  when  they  are  imitating  Chaucer,  they 
do  not  imitate  his  conventional  landscape.  They  put  in  a 
Scotch  landscape,  and,  in  the  work  of  such  men  as  Gawin 
Douglas,  the  love  of  Scotland  and  the  love  of  nature  mingle 
their  influences  together  to  make  him  sit  down,  as  it  were,  to 
paint,  with  his  eye  on  everything  he  paints,  a  series  of  Scotch 
landscapes.  It  is  done  without  any  artistic  composition;  it 
reads  like  a  catalogue,  but  it  is  work  which  stands  quite  alone 
at  the  time  he  wrote.  There  is  nothing  even  resembling  it 
in  England  for  centuries  after. 

Its  Individual  Element. — There  is  one  more  special 
element  in  early  Scottish  poetry  which  arose,  I  think,  out  of 
its  political  circumstances.     All  through  the  struggle  for  free- 


82  Literature  of  Period  III.,  1400-1558. 

dom,  carried  on,  as  it  was  at  first,  by  small  bands  under 
separate  leaders  till  they  alj  came  together  under  a  leader  like 
Bruce,  a  much  greater  amount  of  individuality  and  a  greater 
habit  of  it  were  created  among  the  Scotch  than  among  the 
English.  Men  fought  for  their  own  land,  and  lived  in  their 
own  way.  Every  little  border  chieftain,  almost  every  border 
farmer  was,  or  felt  himself  to  be,  his  own  master.  The  poets 
would  be  likely  to  share  in  this  individual  quality,  and,  in 
spite  of  the  overpowering  influence  of  Chaucer,  to  strike  out 
new  veins  of  poetic  thought  and  new  methods  of  poetic 
expression.  And  this  is  what  happened.  Long  before  forms 
of  poetry  like  the  short  pastoral  or  the  fable  had  appeared  in 
England,  the  Scottish  poets  had  started  them.  They  were 
less  docile  imitators  than  the  English,  but  their  work  in  the 
new  forms  they  started  was  not  so  good  as  the  after  English 
work  in  the  same  forms. 

The  first  of  the  Scottish  poets,  omitting  Thomas  of  Ercel- 
doune,  is  John"  Barbour,  Archdeacon  of  Aberdeen.  His 
long  poem  of  The  Bruce  represents  the  whole  of  the  eager 
struggle  for  Scottish  freedom  against  the  English  which 
closed  at  Bannockburn;  and  the  national  spirit,  which  I  have 
mentioned,  springs  in  it,  full  grown,  into  life.  But  it  is 
temperate,  it  does  not  pass  into  the  fury  against  England 
which  is  so  plain  in  writers  like  Blikd  Harry,  who,  about 
1461,  composed  a  long  poem  in  the  heroic  couplet  of  Chaucer, 
on  the  deeds  of  William  Wallace.  Barbour  was  often  in  Eng- 
land for  the  sake  of  study,  and  his  patriotism,  though  strong, 
is  tolerant  of  England.  The  date  of  his  poem  is  1375,  7;  it 
never  mentions  Chai^cer,  and  Barbour  is  the  only  early  Scot- 
tish poet  on  whom  Chaucer  had  no  influence.  In  the  next 
poet  we  find  the  influence  of  Chaucer,  and  it  is  hereafter  con- 
tinuous till  the  Elizabethan  time. 

James  the  First  of  Scotland  was  prisoner  in  England  for 
nineteen  years,  till  1422.  There  he  read  Chaucer,  and  fell  in 
love  with  Lady  Jane  Beaufort,  niece  of  Henry  the  Fourth.     The 


Scottish  Poetry,  83 


poem  which  he  wrote,  The  Kincfs  Quhair,  the  quire,  or  book,  is 
done  in  imitation  of  Chaucer,  and  in  Chaucer's  seven-lined 
stanza,  which  from  James's  use  of  it  is  called  Rime  Eoyal.  In 
six  cantos,  sweeter,  tenderer,  and  purer  than  any  other  verse 
till  we  come  to  Spenser,  he  describes  the  beginning  of  his  love 
and  its  happy  end.  '  I  must  write,'  he  says,  *  so  much,  because 
I  have  come  so  from  Hell  to  Heaven.'  Nor  did  the  flower  of 
his  love  and  hers  ever  fade.  She  defended  him  in  the  last 
ghastly  scene  of  murder  when  his  kingly  life  ended.  There  is 
something  especially  pathetic  in  the  lover  of  Chaucer,  in  the 
first  poet  of  sentiment  in  Scotland's  being  slain  so  cruelly. 
He  was  no  blind  imitator  of  Chaucer.  We  are  conscious  at 
once  of  an  original  element  in  his  work.  The  natural  descrip- 
tion is  more  varied,  the  color  is  more  vivid,  and  there  is  a 
modern  self-reflective  quality,  a  touch  of  spiritual  feeling, 
which  does  not  belong  to  Chaucer  at  all.  The  poems  of  The 
Kirh  on  the  Green  and  Peebles  to  the  Play  have  been  attrib- 
uted to  him.  If  they  are  his,  he  originated  a  new  vein  of 
poetry,  which  Burns  afterwards  carried  out — the  comic  and 
satirical  ballad  poem.  But  they  are  more  likely  to  be  by 
James  V. 

Robert  Heitryson",  who  died  before  1508,  a  school-master 
in  Dunfermline,  was  also  an  imitator  of  Chaucer,  and  his 
Testament  of  Oresseid  continues  Chaucer's  Troilus.  But  he 
set  on  foot  two  new  forms  of  poetry.  He  made  poems  out  of 
i\iQfaUes.  They  differ  entirely  from  the  short,  neat  form  in 
which  Gay  and  La  Fontaine  treated  the  fable.  They  are  long 
stories,  full  of  pleasant  dialogue,  political  allusions,  and  with 
elaborate  morals  attached  to  them.  They  have  a  peculiar 
Scottish  tang,  and  are  full  of  descriptions  of  Scotch  scenery. 
He  also  began  the  short  pastoral  in  his  Rohm  and  Mahyne. 
It  is  a  natural,  prettily  turned  dialogue  ;  and  a  subtile  Celtic 
wit,  such  as  charms  us  in  Duncan  Grey,  runs  through  it.  The 
individuality  which  struck  out  two  original  lines  of  poetic 
work  in  these  poems  appears  again  in  his  sketch  of  the  graces 


84  Literature  of  Period  III.,  1400-1558. 

of  womanhood  in  the  Garment  of  Good  Ladies  ;  a  poem  of  the 
same  type  as  those  thoughtful  lyrics  which  describe  what  is 
best  in  certain  phases  of  professions,  or  life,  such  as  Sir  H. 
Wotton's  Character  of  a  Happy  Life,  or  Wordsworth's  Happy 
Warrior. 

But  among  lesser  men,  whom  we  need  not  mention,  the 
greatest  is  William  Dukbar.  He  carries  the  influence  of 
Chaucer  on  to  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  and  into  the  six- 
teenth. Few  have  possessed  a  more  masculine  genius,  and 
his  work  was  as  varied  in  its  range  as  it  was  original.  He 
followed  the  form  and  plan  of  Chaucer  in  his  two  poems  of 
The  Thistle  and  the  Rose,  1503,  and  The  Golden  Terge,  1508, 
the  first  on  the  marriage  of  James  IV.  to  Margaret  Tudor, 
the  second  an  allegory  of  Love,  Beauty,  Reason,  and  the  Poet. 
In  both,  though  they  begin  with  Chaucer's  conventional  May 
morning,  the  natural  description  becomes  Scottish,  and  in 
both  the  national  enthusiasm  of  the  poet  is  strongly  marked. 
But  he  soon  ceased  to  imitate.  The  vigorous  fun  of  the 
satires  and  of  the  satirical  ballads  that  he  wrote  is  matched 
only  by  their  coarseness,  a  coarseness  and  a  fun  that  descended 
to  Burns.  Perhaps  Dunbar's  genius  is  still  higher  in  a  wild 
poem  in  which  he  personifies  the  seven  deadly  sins,  and 
describes  their  dance,  with  a  mixture  of  horror  and  humor 
which  makes  the  little  thing  unique. 

A  man  almost  as  remarkable  as  Dunbar  is  Gawii!^  Doug- 
las, Bishop  of  Dunkeld,  who  died  in  1522,  at  the  Court  of 
Henry  VIII.,  and  was  buried  in  the  Savoy.  He  is  the  author 
of  the  first  metrical  English  translation  from  the  original  of 
any  Latin  book.  He  translated  Ovid's  Art  of  Love,  and  after- 
wards, with  truth  and  spirit,  the  JSneid  of  Vergil,  1513.  To 
each  book  of  the  ^Eneid  he  wrote  a  prologue  of  his  own. 
And  it  is  chiefly  by  these  that  he  takes  rank  among  the  Scot- 
tish poets.  Three  of  them  are  descriptions  of  the  country  in 
May,  in  autumn,  and  in  winter.  The  scenery  is  altogether 
Scotch,  and  the  few  Chaucerisms  that  appear  seem  absurdly 


Scottish  Poetry.  85 


out  of  place  in  a  picture  of  nature  which  is  as  close  as  if  it 
had  been  done  by  Keats  in  his  early  time.  The  color  is 
superb,  the  landscape  is  described  with  an  excessive  detail, 
but  the  poem  is  not  composed  by  any  art  into  a  whole.  Still 
it  astonishes  the  reader,  and  it  is  only  by  bringing  in  the 
Celtic  element  of  loye  of  nature  that  we  can  account  for.  the 
vast  distance  between  work  like  this  and  contemporary  work 
in  England  such  as  Skelton's.  Of  Douglas's  other  original 
work,  one  poem,  The  Palace  of  Honour,  1501,  continues  the 
influence  of  Chaucer. 

There  were  a  number  of  other  Scottish  poets  belonging  to 
this  time  who  are  all  remembered  and  praised  by  Sir  David 
Ly:s^dsay,  whom  it  is  best  to  mention  in  this  place,  because 
he  still  connects  Scottish  poetry  with  Chaucer.  He  was  born 
about  1490  and  is  the  last  of  the  old  Scottish  school,  and  the 
most  popular.  He  is  the  most  popular,  because  he  is  not 
only  the  Poet  but  also  the  Reformer.  His  poem,  The  Dreme, 
1528,  connects  him  with  Chaucer.  It  is  in  the  manner  of  the 
old  poet.  But  its  scenery  is  Scottish,  and,  instead  of  the  May 
morning  of  Chaucer,  it  oj^ens  on  a  winter's  day  of  wind  and 
sleet.  The  place  is  a  cave  over  the  sea,  whence  Lyndsay  sees 
the  weltering  of  the  waves.  Chaucer  goes  to  sleep  over  Ovid 
or  Cicero,  Lyndsay  falls  into  dream  as  he  thinks  of  the  'false 
world's  instability'  wavering  like  the  sea  waves.  The  differ- 
ence marks  not  only  the  difference  of  the  two  countries,  but 
the  different  natures  of  the  men.  Chaucer  did  not  care  much 
for  the  popular  storms,  and  loved  the  Court  more  than  the 
Commonweal.  Lyndsay  in  the  Dreme,  and  in  two  other 
poems — the  Complaint  to  the  King,  and  the  Testament  of  the 
King's  Pa^jgngo — is  absorbed  in  the  evils  and  sorrows  of  the 
people,  and  in  the  desire  to  reform  the  abuses  of  the  Church, 
of  the  Court,  of  party,  of  the  nobility. 

In  1539  his  Satire  of  the  Three  Estates,  a  Morality  inter- 
spersed with  interludes,  was  represented  before  James  V.  at 
Linlithgow.    It  was  first  acted  in  1535,  and  was  a  daring  attack 


86  Literature  of  Period  III.,  1400-1558. 

on  the  ignorance,  profligacy,  and  exactions  of  the  priesthood, 
on  the  vices  and  flattery  of  the  favorites — ^a  mocking  of 
abuses  used  in  the  country  by  diverse  sorts  of  estate.'  A 
still  bolder  poem,  and  one  thought  so  even  by  himself,  is  the 
Monarcliie,  1553,  his  last  work.  Eeformer  as  he  was,  he  was 
more  a  social  and  political  than  a  religious  one.  He  bears  the 
same  relation  to  Knox  as  Langland  did  to  Wiclif.  When  he 
was  sixty-five  years  old,  he  saw  the  fruits  of  his  work. 
Ecclesiastical  councils  met  to  reform  the  Church.  But  the 
reform  soon  went  beyond  his  temperate  wishes.  In  1557  the 
Eef ormation  in  Scotland  was  fairly  launched  when  m  Decem- 
ber the  Congregation  signed  the  Bond  of  Association.  Lyndsay 
had  died  three  years  before ;  he  is  as  much  the  reformer  as  he 
is  the  poet,  of  a  transition  time.  ^  Still  his  verse  hath  charms,' 
but  it  was  neither  sweet  nor  imaginative.  He  had  genuine 
satire,  great  moral  breadth,  much  preaching  power  in  verse, 
coarse,  broad  humor  in  plenty,  and  more  dramatic  power  and 
invention  than  the  rest  of  his  fellows,  and  he  lived  an  active, 
bold,  and  brave  life  in  a  very  stormy  time." 

Lesson  16. 

Poetry  in  the  Sixteenth  Century  under  the  Influence 
OF  Chaucer. — ^*  We  shall  speak  in  this  and  in  the  next  two 
paragraphs  only  of  the  poets  in  England  whose  work  was  due 
to  the  publication  of  Chaucer,  Gower,  and  Lydgate  by  Caxton. 
After  a  short  revival  that  influence  died,  and  a  new  one 
entered  from  Italy  into  English  verse  in  the  poems  of  Surrey 
and  Wyatt.  The  transition  period  between  the  one  influence 
and  the  other  is  of  great  interest.  We  see  how  the  old  poets 
had  been  neglected  by  the  way  in  which  the  new  poets  speak 
of  them  as  of  something  wonderful,  and  by  the  indignant 
reproach  a  man  like  Hawes  makes  when  he  says  that  people 
care  for  nothing  but  ballads,  and  will  not  read  these  old 
books.  But  the  reproach  was  unwise.  It  is  better  for  the 
interests  of  literature  to  make  a  new  ballad  thian  to  read  an 


Poetry  from  1500-1558.  87 

old  poem,  and  the  ballads  of  England  kept  ijp  the  original 
vein  of  poetry.  It  is  one  of  the  signs  of  a  new  poetic  life  in  a 
nation  when  it  is  fond  of  poetry  which,  like  the  ballad,  has  to 
do  with  the  human  interests  of  the  present:  and,  when  that 
kind  of  human  poetry  pleases  the  upper  classes  as  well  as  the 
lower,  a  resurrection  of  poetry  is  at  hand. 

Ha  WES  AND  Skelton. — At  such  a  time  we  are  likely  to  find 
imitators  of  the  old  work,  and  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VII. 
Stephen-  Hawes  recast  a  poem  of  Lydgate's  (?)  The  Temple 
of  Glass,  and  imitated  Chaucer's  work  and  the  old  allegory  in 
his  Pastime  of  Pleasure,  1506.  We  shall  also  find  men  who, 
while  they  still  follow  the  old,  leave  it  for  an  original  line, 
because  they  are  more  moved  by  human  life  in  the  present 
than  in  the  past.  Their  work  will  be  popular,  it  may  even 
resemble  the  form  of  the  ballad.  Such  a  man  was  John" 
Skelton,  who  wrote  in  Henry  VII. 's  and  in  Henry  VIII. 's 
reign,  and  died,  1529.  His  earliest  poems  were  after  the  man- 
ner of  Chaucer,  but  he  soon  took  a  manner  of  his  own,  and, 
being  greatly  excited  by  the  cry  of  the  people  for  Church 
reformation,  wrote  a  bitter  satire  on  Wolsey  for  his  pride,  and 
on  the  clergy  for  their  luxury.  His  poem,  WJiy  come  ye  not  to 
Court?  was  a  fierce  satire  on  the  great  Cardinal.  That  of 
Colin  Clout  was  the  cry  of  the  country  Colin,  and  of  the 
Clout  or  mechanic  of  the  town,  against  the  corruption  of  the 
Church. 

Both  are  written  in  short,  '  rude,  rayling  rimes,  pleas- 
ing only  the  popular  ear,'  and  Skelton  chose  them  for  that 
purpose.-  Both  have  a  rough,  impetuous  power;  their  lan- 
guage is  coarse,  full  even  of  slang,  but  Skelton  could  use 
any  language  he  pleased.  He  was  an  admirable  scholar. 
Erasmus  calls  him  the  '  glory  and  light  of  English  letters,' 
and  Caxton  says  that  he  improved  our  language.  Colin  Clout 
represents  the  whole  popular  feeling  of  the  time  just  before 
the  movement  of  the  Reformation  took  a  new  turn  by  the 
opposition  of  the  Pope  to  Henry's  divorce.     It  was  not  only 


88  Literature  of  Period  IIL,  1400-1558. 

in  this  satirical  Tein  that  Skelton  wrote.  We  owe  to  him 
some  pretty  and  new  love  lyrics ;  and  the  Boke  of  Phyllyp 
Sparowe,  which  tells  the  grief  of  a  nun,  called  Jane  Scrope,  for 
the  death  of  her  sparrow,  is  one  of  the  gayest  and  most  inven- 
tive poems  in  the  language.  Skelton  stands  quite  alone  between 
the  last  flicker  of  the  influence  of  Chaucer,  whose  last  true 
imitator  he  was,  and  the  rise  of  a  new  Italian  influence  in 
England  in  the  poems  of  Surrey  and  Wyatt.  In  his  own 
special  work  he  was  entirely  original,  and,  standing  thus 
between  two  periods  of  poetry,  he  is  a  kind  of  landmark  in 
English  literature.  The  Ship  of  Fooles,  1508,  by  Barclay,  is 
of  this  time,  but  it  has  no  value.  It  is  a  recast  of  a  work  pub- 
lished at  Basel,  and  was  popular  because  it  attacked  the  follies 
and  questions  of  the  time.  It  was  written  in  Chaucer's 
stanza. 

Italian  Influence — Wyatt  and  Sussey. — While  poetry 
under  Skelton  and  Lyndsay  became  an  instrument  of  reform, 
it  revived  as  an  art  at  the  close  of  Henry  VIII. 's  reign  in  Sir 
Thomas  Wyatt  and  the  Earl  of  Surrey.  They  were  both 
Italian  travellers,  and,  in  taking  laack  to  England  the  inspira- 
tion they  had  gained  from  Petrarca,  they  if-made  English 
poetry.  They  are  the  first  really  modern  English  poets;  the 
first  who  have  anything  of  the  modern  manner.  Though 
Italian  in  sentiment,  their  language  is  more  English  than 
Chaucer's  is,  they  use  fewer  romance  words.  They  handed 
down  this  purity  of  English  to  the  Elizabethan  poets,  to 
Sackville,  Spenser,  and  Shakespeare.  They  introduced  a 
new  kind  of  poetry,  the  amourist  poetry.  The  '  amourists,' 
as  they  are  called,  were  poets  who  composed  poems  on 
the  subject  of  love — sonnets  mingled  with  lyrical  pieces 
after  the  manner  of  Petrarca,  and  in  accord  with  the  love 
philosophy  he  built  on  Plato.  The  Hundred  Passio7is  of 
Watsois",  the  sonnets  of  Sidney,  Shakespeare,  Spenser,  and 
Drummond  are  all  poems  of  this  kind,  and  the  same  impulse 
in  a  similar  form  appears  in  the  sonnets  of  Rosetti  and  Mrs. 
Browning  of  our  time. 


Poetry  from  1500-1558. 


The  subjects  of  Wyatt  and  Surrey  were  chiefly  lyrical, 
and  the  fact  that  they  imitated  the  same  model  has  made 
some  likeness  between  them.  Like  their  personal  char- 
acters, however,  the  poetry  of  Wyatt  is  the  more  thought- 
ful and  the  more  strongly  felt,  but  Surrey's  has  a  sweeter 
movement  and  a  livelier  fancy.  Both  did  this  great  thing 
fur  English  verse — they  chose  an  exquisite  model,  and  in 
imitating  it  *  corrected  the  ruggedness  of  English  poetry.' 
Such  verse  as  Skelton's  became  impossible.  A  new  standard 
was  made,  below  which  the  after  poets  could  not  fall.  They 
also  added  new  stanza  measures  to  English  verse,  and  enlarged 
in  this  way  the  ^lyrical  range.'  Surrey  was  the  first,  in  his 
translation  of  VergiVs  j^neid,  to  use  the  ten-syllabled,  un- 
rhymed  verse,  which  we  now  call  blank-verse.  In  his  hands 
it  is  not  worthy  of  praise;  it  had  neither  the  true  form  nor 
the  harmony  into  which  it  grew  afterwards.  Sackville,  Lord 
Buckhurst,  introduced  it  into  drama;  Marlowe,  in  his  Tarn- 
lurlaine,  made  it  the  proper  verse  of  the  drama;  and  Shake- 
speare, Beaumont,  and  Massinger  used  it  splendidly.  In  plays 
it  has  a  special  manner  of  its  own;  in  poetry  proper  it  was,  we 
may  say,  not  only  created  but  perfected  by  Milton. 

The  new  impulse  thus  given  to  poetry  was  all  but  arrested 
by  the  bigotry  that  prevailed  during  the  reigns  of  Edward  YI. 
and  Mary,  and  all  the  work  of  the  New  Learning  seemed  to 
be  useless.  But  Thomas  Wilson's  book  in  English  on  Rhet- 
oric and  Locfic  in  1553,  and  the  publication  of  Thos.  Tusser's 
Pointes  of  Hushandrie  and  of  Tottel's  Miscellany  of  Uncertain 
Authors,  1557,  in  the  last  years  of  Mary's  reign,  proved  that 
something  was  stirring  beneath  the  gloom.  The  latter  book 
contained  the  poems  of  Suri'ey  and  Wyatt,  and  others  by 
Grimald,  by  Lord  Vaux,  and  Lord  Berners.  The  date  should 
be  remembered,  for  it  is  the  first  printed  book  of  modern 
English  poetry.  It  proves  that  men  cared  now  more  for  the 
new  than  for  the  old  poets,  that  the  time  of  imitating  Chaucer 
was  over,  and  that  of  original  creation  was  begun.  It  ushers 
in  the  Elizabethan  literature." 


90 


Literature  of  Period  III.,  1400-1558. 


Scheme  foe  Review. 


Houses  of  Lancaster  and  York 

and  War  of  the  Roses 69 

Revival  of  Learning 69 

Conquest  of  Ireland 69 

5  >> .  f  Interest  in  Literature ...  70 

1^0^  Italian  Influence 71 

%o^  [caxton's  Work 71 

Prose  under  Henry  VIII 72 

Prose  and  the  Reformation 73 

^^^  fLydgate 74 

gJ^'J  Occleve 75 

sS  §  0  I  Ballads,  etc 76 

^        Iciievy  Chase 77 


Celtic  Elements 

National  Elements 

Individual  Element 

Barbour    and   James    I. 

Scotland 

Henryson 

Dunbar  and  Dousrlass.. 


of 


5| 
.2  3 


Under      f  Hawes  . 
Chaucer's  < 
Influence.  [  Skelton. 


Under 

Italian 

Influence. 


r  Wyatt 

Surrey 

Blank-Yerse , 
L  Wilson 


81 
81 

82 
83 
84 
87 
87 
88 
88 
89 


PERIOD  IV. 

Elizabeth's  Eeigk, 
1558-1603. 


Lesson  17. 

Brief  Historical  Sketch. — Elizabeth's  first  Parliament  undid  Mary's 
work,  repealed  the  statutes  of  heresj'-,  dissolved  the  refounded 
monasteries,  and  restored  the  Royal  Supremacy.  Manufactures  of  all 
kinds  are  stimulated,  commerce  is  developed,  and  the  diet  of  the  com- 
mon people  improved;  pewter  plates  replace  wooden  trenchers,  and 
feather  beds  straw  mattresses;  carpets  supersede  rushes,  glass  windows 
become  common,  and  houses  are  no  longer  built  for  defence,  but  for 
comfort,  and  of  brick  instead  of  wood.  Members  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons no  longer  paid.  The  thirty-nine  articles  of  faith  enacted  by 
Parliament,  1562.  Hawkins  begins  Slave  Trade  with  Africa,  1562. 
First  penal  statute  against  Catholics  and  first-  Poor  Law,  1562.  Puri- 
tans secede  from  English  Church,  1566.  The  Revolt  of  the  Netherlands 
against  Philip  H,  assisted  by  Elizabeth,  1575  and  on.  Futile  attempts 
to  colonize  America  made  by  Gilbert,  1578,  and  by  Raleigh,  1584,  6,  and 
7.  Drake  circumnavigated  the  earth,  1577.  London  supplied  by  water 
in  pipes,  1582.  Potatoes  and  tobacco  introduced,  1586.  Mary,  Queen 
of  Scots,  executed  by  Elizabeth,  1587.  Spanish  Armada  defeated,  1588. 
Episcopacy  abolished  in  Scotland  and  Presbyterianism  established  as 
the  state  religion,  1596.  Ruin  of  second  Armada,  1597.  Bodleian 
library  founded  at  Oxford,  1598.  East  India  Company  chartered,  1600. 
Magnetism  discovered  same  year.  Earl  of  Essex  executed,  1601. 
Tyrone's  rebellion  in  Ireland  crushed,  1603.  Wonders  of  the  New 
World  powerfully  influenced  the  literature  of  this  period. 

Lessojst  18. 

Elizabethan  Liteeatuee. — "  This  may  be  said  to  begin 

with  Surrey  and  Wyatt.     But  as  their  poems  were  published 
shortly  before  Elizabeth  came  to  the  throne,  we  date  the  be- 


92  Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

ginning  of  the  earlier  Elizabethan  literature  from  the  year  of 
her  accession,  1558.  The  era  of  this  earlier  literature  lasted 
till  1579,  and  was  followed  by  the  great  literary  outburst,  as 
it  has  been  called,  of  the  days  of  Spenser  and  Shakespeare. 
The  apparent  suddenness  of  this  outburst  has  been  an  object 
of  wonder.  Men  have  searched  for  its  causes  chiefly  in  those 
which  led  to  the  revival  of  learning,  and  no  doubt  these  bore 
on  England  as  they  did  on  the  whole  of  Europe.  But  we 
shall  best  seek  its  nearest  causes  in  the  work  done  during  the 
early  years  of  Elizabeth,  and  in  doing  so  we  shall  find  that 
the  outburst  was  not  so  sudden  after  all.  It  was  preceded  by 
a  various,  plentiful,  but  inferior,  literature,  in  which  new 
forms  of  poetry  and  prose-writing  were  tried,  and  new  veins 
of  thought  opened,  which  were  afterwards  wrought  out  fully 
and  splendidly.  All  the  germs  of  the  coming  age  are  to  be 
found  in  these  twenty  years.  The  outburst  of  a  plant  into 
flower  seems  sudden,  but  the  whole  growth  of  the  plant  has 
caused  it,  and  the  flowering  of  Elizabethan  literature  was  the 
slow  result  of  the  growth  of  the  previous  literature  and  the 
influences  that  bore  upon  it. 

The  Earlier  Elizabethan  Poetry,  1558-1579,  is  first  repre- 
sented by  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst.  The  Mirror  of 
Magistrates,  1559,  for  which  he  wrote  the  Induction  and  one 
tale,  is  a  poem  on  the  model  of  Boccaccio's  Falls  of  Princes, 
already  imitated  by  Lydgate.  Seven  poets,  along  with  Sack- 
ville, contributed  tales  to  it,  but  his  poem  is  the  only  one  of 
any  value.  The  Induction  paints  the  poet's  descent  into 
Avernus,  and  his  meeting  with  Henry  Stafford,  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  whose  fate  he  tells  with  a  grave  and  inventive 
imagination.  Being  written  in  the  manner  and  stanza  of  the 
elder  poets,  this  poem  has  been  called  the  transition  between 
Lydgate  and  Spenser.  But  it  does  truly  belong  to  the  old  time; 
it  is  as  modern  as  Spenser.  George  GASCOiG:srE,  whose  satire, 
the  Steele  Olas,  1576,  is  our  first  long  satirical  poem,  is  the 
best  among  a  crowd  of  lesser  poets  who  came  after  Sackville. 


Poetry  and  Prose,  1558-1679.  93 

They  wrote  legends,  pieces  on  the  wars  and  discoveries  of  the 
Englishmen  of  their  day,  epitaphs,  epigrams,  songs,  sonnets, 
elegies,  fables,  and  sets  of  love  poems;  and  the  best  things 
they  did  were  collected  in  a  miscellany  called  the  Paradise  of 
Da'mty  Devices ^  in  1576.  This  book,  with  Tottel's,  set  on 
foot  in  the  later  years  of  Elizabeth  a  crowd  of  other  miscel- 
lanies of  poetry,  which  were  of  great  use  to  the  poets.  Lyri- 
cal poetry  and  that  which  we  may  call  'occasional  poetry' 
were  now  fairly  started. 

2.  The  masques,  pageants,  interludes,  and  plays  that  were 
written  at  this  time  are  scarcely  to  be  counted.  At  every 
great  ceremonial,  whenever  the  queen  made  a  progress  or 
visited  one  of  the  great  lords  or  a  university,  at  the  houses  of 
the  nobility,  and  at  the  court  on  all  important  days,  some 
obscure  versifier,  or  a  young  scholar  at  the  Inns  of  Court,  at 
Oxford,  or  at  Cambridge  produced  a  masque  or  a  pageant,  or 
wrote  or  translated  a  play.  The  habit  of  play-writing  became 
common;  a  kind  of  school,  one  might  almost  say  a  manufac- 
ture, of  plays  arose,  which  partly  accounts  for  the  rapid  pro- 
duction, the  excellence,  and  the  multitude  of  plays  that 
we  find  after  1579.  Eejoresented  all  over  England,  these 
masques,  j)ageants,  and  dramas  were  seen  by  the  people,  who 
were  thus  accustomed  to  take  an  interest,  though  of  an  un- 
educated kind,  in  the  larger  drama  that  was  to  follow.  The 
literary  men,  on  the  other  hand,  ransacked,  in  order  to  find 
subjects  and  scenes  for  their  pageants,  ancient  and  mediaeval 
and  modern  literature,  and  many  of  them  in  doing  so  became 
fine  scholars.  The  imagination  of  England  was  quickened 
and  educated  in  this  way,  and,  as  Biblical  stories  were  also 
largely  used,  the  images  of  oriental  life  were  added  to  the 
materials  of  imagination. 

3.  Frequent  translations  were  now  made  from  the  classical 
writers.  We  know  the  names  of  more  than  twelve  men  who 
did  this  work,  and  there  must  have  been  many  more.  Already 
in  Henry  VIII. 's  and  in  Edward  VI. 's  time,  ancient  authors 


94  Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

had  been  made  English;  and  before  1579,  Vergil,  Ovid,  Cicero, 
Demosthenes,  and  many  Greek  and  Latin  plays  were  trans- 
lated. In  this  way  the  best  models  were  brought  before  the 
English  people,  and  it  is  in  the  influence  of  the  spirit  of  Greek 
and  Eoman  literature  on  literary  form  and  execution  that  we 
are  to  find  one  of  the  vital  causes  of  the  greatness  of  the  later 
Elizabethan  literature. 

The  Earlier  Elizabethan  Prose,  1558-1579,  began  with  the 
Scholemaster  of  Ascham,  published  1570.  This  book,  which 
is  on  education,  is  the  work  of  the  scholar  of  the  New  Learn- 
ing of  the  time  of  Henry  VIII.  who  has  lived  on  into  another 
time.  It  is  not,  properly  speaking,  Elizabethan,  it  is  like  a 
stranger  in  a  new  land  and  among  new  manners. 

2.  Theological  reform  stirred  men  to  literary  work.  A  great 
number  of  satirical  ballads  and  pamphlets  and  plays  issued 
every  year  from  obscure  presses  and  filled  the  land.  Writers, 
like  George  Gascoigne  and,  still  more,  Barkaby  Googe,  rep- 
resent in  their  work  the  hatred  the  young  men  had  of  the  old 
religious  system.  It  was  a  spirit  which  did  not  do  much  for 
literature,  but  it  quickened  the  habit  of  composition,  and 
made  it  easier.  The  Bible  also  became  common  property, 
and  its  language  glided  into  all  theological  writing  and  gave 
it  a  literary  tone;  while  the  publication  of  John"  Fox's  Acts 
and  Monuments f  or  Book  of  Martyrs,  1563,  gave  to  the  people 
all  over  England  a  book  which,  by  its  simple  style,  the  ease  of 
its  story-telling,  and  its  popular  charm,  made  the  veiy  peas- 
ants who  heard  it  read  feel  what  is  meant  by  literature. 

3.  The  love  of  stories  again  awoke.  The  old  English  tales 
and  ballads  were  eagerly  read  and  collected.  Italian  Tales  by 
various  authors  were  translated  and  sown  so  broadcast  over 
London  by  William  Painter,  in  his  collection.  The  Palace  of 
Pleasure,  1566,  by  George  Turbervile  and  others,  that  it  is 
said  they  were  to  be  bought  at  every  bookstall.  A  great  number 
of  subjects  for  prose  and  poetry  were  thus  made  ready  for 
literary  men,  and  fiction  became  possible  in  English  literajfcure. 


Foetry  and  Prose,  1558-1579.  95 

Another  influence  of  the  same  kind  bore  on  literature.  It 
was  that  given  by  the  stories  of  the  voyagers,  who,  in  the  new 
commercial  activity  of  the  country,  penetrated  into  strange 
lands.  Before  1579  books  had  been  published  on  the  north- 
west passage.  Frobisher  had  made  his  voyages,  and  Drake 
had  started,  to  return  in  1580  to  amaze  all  England  with  the 
story  of  his  sail  round  the  world,  and  of  the  riches  of  the 
Spanish  main.  We  may  trace  everywhere  in  Elizabethan 
literature  the  impression  made  by  the  wonders  told  by  the 
sailors  and  captains  who  explored  and  fought  from  the  North 
Pole  to  the  Southern  Seas. 

4.  The  history  of  the  country  and  its  manners  was  not 
neglected.  A  whole  class  of  antiquarians  wrote  steadily,  if 
with  some  dulness^  on  this  subject.  Graftok,  Stow,  Holin"- 
SHED,  and  others  at  least  supplied  materials  for  the  study  and 
use  of  the  historical  drama. 

5.  Lastly,  we  have  proof  that  there  was  a  large  number  of 
persons  writing  who  did  not  publish  their  works.  It  was  con- 
sidered at  this  time  that  to  write  for  the  public  injured  a  man, 
and,  unless  he  were  driven  by  poverty,  he  kept  his  manuscript 
by  him.  But  things  were  changed  when  a  great  genius  like 
Spenser  took  the  world  by  storm ;  when  Lyly's  Euphues 
enchanted  the  whole  of  court  society ;  Avhen  a  great  gentle- 
man, like  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  became  a  writer..  Literature  was 
made  the  fashion,  and,  the  disgrace  being  taken  from  it,  the 
production  became  enormous.  Manuscripts  written  and  laid 
by  were  at  once  sent  forth  ;  and,  when  the  rush  began,  it  grew 
by  its  own  force.  Those  who  had  previously  been  kept  from 
writing  by  its  unpopularity  now  took  it  up  eagerly,  and  those 
who  had  written  before  Avrote  twice  as  much  now.  The  great 
improvement  also  in  literary  quality  is  easily  accounted  for  by 
this — that  men  strove  to  equal  such  work  as  Sidney's  or  Spen- 
ser's, and  that  a  wider  and  sharper  criticism  arose." 


96  Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 


>^  LfESSOisr  19. 

The  Prose  of  the  Later  Elizabethan  Literature,  1579- 
1603. — "This  begins  with  the  publication  of  Lyly's  Euphues 
in  1579,  and  with  the  writing  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Arcadia 
and  his  Defence  of  Poetrie,  1580-81.  The  Euphues  and  the 
Arcadia  carried  on  the  story-telling  literature  ;  the  Defence  of 
Poetrie  created  a  new  form  of  literature,  that  of  criticism. 

The  Euphues  was  the  work  of  JoHi^  Lyly,  poet  and  drama- 
tist. It  is  in  two  parts,  Euphues  and  Euphues'  England,  In 
six  years  it  ran  through  five  editions,  so  great  was  its  popularity. 
Its  prose  style  is  too  poetic,  but  it  is  admirable  for  its  smooth- 
ness and  charm,  and  its  very  faults  were  of  use  in  softening 
the  rudeness  of  previous  prose.  The  story  is  long  and  is  more 
a  loose  framework  into  which  Lyly  could  fit  his  thoughts  on 
love,  friendship,  education,  and  religion  than  a  true  story. 
The  second  part  is  made  up  of  several  stories  in  one,  and  is  a 
picture  of  the  Englishman  abroad.  It  made  its  mark,  because 
it  fell  in  with  all  the  fantastic  and  changeable  life  of  the  time. 
Its  far-fetched  conceits,  its  extravagance  of  gallantry,  its  end- 
less metaphors  from  the  classics  and  natural  history,  its 
curious  and  gorgeous  descriptions  of  dress,  and  its  pale  imita- 
tion of  chivalry  were  all  reflected  in  the  life  and  talk  and  dress 
of  the  court  of  Elizabeth.  It  became  the  fashion  to  talk 
*  Euphuism,'  and,  like  the  Utopia  of  More,  Lyly's  book  has 
created  an  English  word. 

The  Arcadia  was  the  work  of  Sir  Philip  Sidkey  and, 
though  written  in  1580,  did  not  appear  till  after  his  death. 
It  is  more  poetic  in  style  than  the  Euphues,  and  Sidney  him- 
self, as  he  wrote  it  under  the  trees  of  Wilton,  would  have 
called  it  a  poem.  It  is  less  the  image  of  the  time  than  of  the 
man.  Most  people  know  that  bright  and  noble  figure,  the 
friend  of  Spenser,  the  lover  of  Stella,  the  last  of  the  old 
knights,  the  poet,  the  critic,  and  the  Christian,  who,  wounded 


Prose — Sidney  and  Others,  97 

to  the  death,  gave  up  the  cup  of  water  to  a  dying  soldier. 
We  find  his  whole  spirit  in  the  story  of  the  Arcadia,  in  the 
first  two  books  and  a  part  of  the  third,  which  alone  were  writ- 
ten by  him.  It  is  a  romance  mixed  up  with  pastoral  stories 
after  the  fashion  of  the  Spanish  romances.  The  characters 
are  real,  but  the  story  is  confused  by  endless  digressions. 
The  sentiment  is  too  fine  and  delicate  for  the  world.  The 
descriptions  are  picturesque,  and  the  sentences  are  made  as 
perfect  as  possible.  A  quaint  or  poetic  thought  or  an  epigram 
appears  in  every  line.  There  is  no  real  art  in  it  or  in  its 
prose.  But  it  is  so  full  of  poetical  thought  that  it  became  a 
mine  into  which  poets  dug  for  subjects. 

Criticism  began  with  Sidney's  Defence  of  Poetrie,  Its 
style  shows  us  that  he  felt  how  faulty  the  prose  of  the  Arcadia 
was.  The  book  made  a  new  step  in  the  creation  of  a  dignified 
English  prose.  It  is  still  too  flowery,  but  in  it  the  fantastic 
prose  of.  his  own  Arcadia  and  of  the  Eupliues  dies.  As  criti- 
cism it  is  chiefly  concerned  with  poetry.  It  defends,  against 
STEPHEiq"  Gossok's  Scliool  of  Abuse,  in  which  poetry  and  plays 
were  attacked  from  the  Puritan  point  of  view,  the  nobler  uses 
7f  poetry.  Sackville,  Surrey,  and  Spenser  are  praised,  and 
ulie  other  poets  made  little  of  in  its  pages.  It  was  followed 
by  Webbe's  Discourse  of  English  Poetrie,  written  '  to  stirre 
up  some  other  of  meet  abilitie  to  bestow  travell  on  the  matter. 
Already  the  other  was  travailing,  and  the  Arte  of  English 
Poesie,  supposed  to  be  written  by  George  Putten'ham,  was 
published  in  1589.  It  is  the  most  elaborate  book  on  the 
whole  subject  in  Elizabeth's  reign,  and  it  marks  the  strong 
interest  now  taken  in  poetry  in  the  highest  society  that  the 
author  says  he  writes  it  '  to  help  the  courtiers  and  the  gentle^ 
women  of  the  court  to  write  good  poetry,  that  the  art  may 
become  yulgar  for  all  Englishmen's  use. ' 

Later  Theological  Liteeatuke. — Before  we  come  to  the 
Poetry  we  will  give  an  account  of  the  Prose  into  which  the 
tendencies  of  the  earlier  years  of  Elizabeth  grew.     The  first  is 


98  Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

that  of  theology.  For  a  long  time  it  remained  only  a  literature 
of  pamphlets.  Puritanism,  in  its  attack  on  the  stage  and  in 
the  Martin  Marprelate  controversy  upon  episcopal  government 
in  the  Church,  flooded  England  with  small  books.  Lord 
Bacon  even  joined  in  the  latter  controversy,  and  Nash,  the 
dramatist,  made  himself  famous  in  the  war  by  the  vigor  and 
fierceness  of  his  wit.  Over  this  troubled  sea  rose  at  last  the 
stately  work  of  Eichakd  Hookek.  It  was  in  1594  that  the 
first  four  books  of  The  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity,  a  defence 
of  the  Church  against  the  Puritans,  were  given  to  the  world. 
Before  his  death  he  finished  the  other  four.  The  book  has 
remained  ever  since  a  standard  work.  It  is  as  much  moral 
and  political  as  theological.  Its  style  is  grave,  clear,  and 
often  musical.  He  adorned  it  with  the  figures  of  poetry,  but 
he  used  them  with  temperance,  and  the  grand  and  rolling 
rlietoric  with  which  he  often  concludes  an  argument  is  kept 
for  its  right  place.  On  the  whole  it  is  the  first  monument  of 
splendid  literary  prose  that  we  possess." 

"Hooker  affords  our  first  example  of  an  elaborate,  high-sounding, 
'periodic  style.'  His  sentences,  in  their  general  character,  are  long  and 
involved.  With  all  their  excellencies,  they  are  not  good  models  for 
English  periods.  In  writing  our  first  elaborate  theological  treatise,  his 
fine  ear  was  irresistibly  cauglit  b}'^  the  rhythm  of  Latin  models  ;  and, 
while  he  learned  from  them  a  more  even  proportion  of  sentence,  lie 
learned  also  to  build  an  elaborate  rhythm  at  the  expense  of  native  idiom. 
Attention  to  clearness  and  simplicity  in  the  structure  of  paragraphs  was 
a  thing  unknown  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  and  Hooker  was,  in  this  re- 
spect, neither  better  nor  worse  than  the  good  writers  of  his  time." — 
William  Minto. 

The  Essay. — '^  We  may  place  alongside  of  it,  as  the  other 
great  prose  work  of  Elizabeth's  later  time,  the  development  of 
the  Essay  in  Loed  Bacon's  Essays,  1597.  Their  highest 
literary  merit  is  their  combination  of  charm  and  even  of  poetic 
prose  with  conciseness  of  expression  and  fulness  of  thought. 
The  rest  of  Bacon's  work  belongs  to  the  following  reign.  The 
splendor  of  the  form,  and  of  the  English  prose  of  i\iQ  Advance- 


Prose — Bacon  mid  Others.  99 

ment  of  Learning,  afterwards  written  in  the  Latin  language, 
and  intended  to  be  worked  up  by  the  addition  of  the  Novum 
Organum  and  the  8ylva  Sylvarum  into  the  treatise  of  the 
histauratio  Magna,  which  Bacon  meant  to  be  a  philosophy  of 
human  knowledge,  raises  it  into  the  realm  of  pure  literature." 

"The  works  of  Bacon  afford  very  little  food  for  ordinary  human 
feelings.  All  the  pleasure  we  gain  from  them  is  founded  upon  their 
intellectual  excellencies.  Even  the  similitudes  are  intellectual  rather 
than  emotional,  ingenious  rather  than  touching  or  poetical.  To  adapt 
an  image  of  Ben  Jonson's,  the  wine  of  Bacon's  writings  is  a  dry  wine. 
As  we  read,  we  experience  the  pleasure  of  surmounting  obstacles;  we 
are  electrified  by  unexpected  analogies,  and  the  sudden  revelations  of 
new  aspects  in  familiar  things;  and  we  sympathise  more  or  less  with  the 
boundless  exhilaration  of  a  mind  that  pierces  with  ease  and  swiftness 
through  barriers  that  reduce  other  minds  to  torpor  and  stagnancy.  The 
opinions  contained  in  his  Essays,  observations  and  precepts  on  man  and 
society,  are  perhaps  the  most  permanent  evidence  of  his  sagacity.  In 
this  field  he  was  thoroughly  at  home ;  the  study  of  mankind  occupied  the 
largest  part  of  his  time." — William  Minto. 

**  JoHJ^  Florio's  translation  of  the  Essays  of  Montaigne, 
1603,  is  also  worth  mentioning,  because  Shakespeare  used  the 
book  and  because  we  trace  Montaigne's  influence  on  English 
literature  even  before  his  retranslation  by  Charles  Cotton. 
A  History,  except  in  the  publication  of  the  earlier  Chronicles 
by  Archbishop  Parker,  does  not  appear  again  in  Elizabeth's 
reign;  but  in  the  next  reign  Camden,  Spelman,  and  John 
Speed  continued  the  antiquarian  researches  of  Stow  and 
Grafton.  Bacon  pul3lished  a  history  of  Henry  VII.,  and 
Samuel  Daniel,  the  poet,  in  his  History  of  England  to  the 
Time  of  Edioard  IIL,  1613,  18,  was  one  of  the  first  to  throw 
history  into  such  a  literary  form  as  to  make  it  popular. 
Kis^OLLEs'  History  of  the  Turks  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's 
vast  sketch  of  the  History  of  the  World  show  how,  for  the  first 
time,  history  spread  itself  beyond  English  interests.  Raleigh's 
book,  written  in  the  peaceful  evening  of  a  stormy  life,  and  in 
the  quiet  of  his  prison,  is  literary  not  only  from  the  ease  and 


100         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

vigor  of  its  style  but  from  its  still  spirit  of  melaDcholy 
thought. 

The  Literature  of  Travel  was  carried  on  by  the  publication 
in  1589  of  Hakluyt's  Navigation,  Voyages,  and  Discoveries 
of  the  English  Nation,  enlarged  afterwards  in  1625  by  Samuel 
PuRCHAS,  who  had  himself  written  a  book  called  Piirchas, 
his  Pilgrimage;  or  The  Relations  and  Religions  of  the  World. 
The  influence  of  a  compilation  of  this  kind,  containing  the 
great  deeds  of  the  English  on  the  seas,  has  been  felt  ever  since 
in  the  literature  of  fiction  and  poetry. 

In  the  Tales,  which  poured  out  like  a  flood  from  the  dram- 
atists, from  such  men  as  Peele  and  Lodge  and  Greene,  we  find 
the  origin  of  English  fiction  and  the  subjects  of  many  of  our 
plays;  while  the  fantastic  attempt  to  revive  the  practices  of 
chivalry,  which  Ave  have  seen  in  the  Arcadia,  found  food  in 
the  translation  of  a  new  school  of  romances,  such  as  Amadis 
of  Oaul,  Palmerin  of  England,  and  the  Seven  Gham;pions  of 
Christendom.^^ 

Bibliography.  Sidney  and  Hooker.— Disraeli's  Amen,  of  Lit.;  R.  Southey's 
Fragment  of  Life  of;  Marsh's  Grig,  and  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.;  E.  P.  Whipple's  Lit.  of  the 
Age  of  Eliz.;  Minto's  Man.  of  Eng.  Prose  Lit.;  Littell,  v.  3,  1863;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v.  88, 
185'J;  Eel.  Mag.,  Apr.,  1847;  and  Dec.,  1855;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  26,  185&-7. 

BACOif.— Essays  with  Annotations  by  Whately;  Works  with  Life  by  B.  Montagu; 
Minto's  Man.  of  Eng.  Prose  Lit.;  Boyd's  Autumn  Holidays  ;  Littell,  1863,  v.  3;  Nat. 
Quar.  Rev.,  v.  6, 1863;  Eraser's  Mag.,  v.  55,  1857;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  27,  1857;  Eel.  Mag., 
Oct.,  1849;  Feb.,  1855;  and  Feb.,  1857. 

LESsoisr  20. 

From  Sidney's  Defence  of  Poetrie. 

Nowe  therein  of  all  Sciences  is  our  Poet  the  Monarch.  For  he  dooth 
not  only  show  the  way  but  giveth  so  sweete  a  prospect  into  the  way  as 
will  intice  any  man  to  enter  into  it.  Nay,  he  dooth,  as  if  your  jour- 
ney should  lie  through  a  faire  Vineyard,  at  the  first  give  you  a  cluster 
of  Grapes,  that,  full  of  that  taste,  you  may  long  to  passe  further.  He 
beginncth  not  with  obscure  definitions,  which  must  blur  the  margent* 
Avith  interpretations,  and  load  the  memory  with  doubtf  ulnesse ;  but  hee 

1  Margin. 


Prose — Sidney^  s.  101 


cometh  to  you  with  words  set  in  delightfull  proportion,  either  accom- 
panied with,  or  prepared  for,  the  well  enchaunting  skill  of  Musicke;  and 
with  a  tale,  forsooth,  he  cometh  unto  you — with  a  tale  which  holdeth 
children  from  play,  and  old  men  from  the  chimney  corner.  And,  pre- 
tending no  more,  doth  intende  the  winning  of  the  mind  from  wicked- 
nesse  to  vertue ;  even  as  the  childe  is  often  brought  to  take  most  whol- 
som  things,  by  hiding  them  in  such  other  as  have  a  pleasant  tast ;  which, 
if  one  should  beginne  to  tell  them  the  nature  of  Aloes  or  Rubarb  they 
shoulde  receive,  woulde  sooner  take  their  Phisicke  at  their  eares  then'  at 
their  mouth.  So  is  it  in  men,  (most  of  which  are  childish  in  the  best 
things  till  they  bee  cradled  in  their  graves)  glad  they  will  be  to  heare  the 
tales  of  Hercules,  Achilles,  Cyrus,  and  Aeneas :  and  hearing  them,  must 
needs  heare  the  right  description  of  wisdom,  valure,'^  and  justice;  which, 
if  they  had  been  barely,  that  is  to  say,  philosophically  set  out,  they 
would  sweare  they  bee  brought  to  schoole  againe. 

Sith,3  then,  Poetrie  is  of  all  humane^  learning  the  most  auncient,  and 
of  most  fatherly  antiquitie,  as  from  whence  other  learnings  have  taken 
their  beginnings;  sith  it  is  so  universall,  that  no  learned  Nation  dooth 
despise  it,  nor  no  barbarous  Nation  is  wi(:hfiful'it;is1,th*  both  K^^imsih  and 
Greek  gave  divine  names  unto  it,  the  one-of  'pixDphetylng,  the  Other  of 
making;  and  that  indeede  that  name  of  hia?l;ciijg  \^  fit^ioi;  I;iim',.cpiisi>'^er- 
ing  that,  where  as  other  Arts  retaine  the>ms'elvefe>witiiin'iheif'*ubj|ec«'Aad 
receive,  as  it  were,  their  beeing  from  it,  the  Poet  onely,  bringeth  his 
owne  stuffe,  and  dooth  not  learne  a  conceited  out  of  a  matter,  but  mak- 
eth  matter  for  a  conceite ;  sith  neither  his  description  nor  his  ende  con- 
taineth  any  evill,  the  thing  described  cannot  be  evill;  sith  his  effects  be 
so  good  as  to  teach  goodnes  and  to  delight  the  learners;  sith  therem 
(namely  in  morrall  doctrine,  the  chief e  of  all  knowledges,)  hee  dooth 
not  onely  farre  passe  the  Historian,  but  for  instructing  is  well  nigh  com- 
parable to  the  Philosopher,  and  for  moving  leaves  him  behind  him;  sith 
the  holy  scripture  (wherein  there  is  no  uncleannes)  hath  whole  parts  in 
it  poeticall,  and  that  even  our  Saviour  Christ  vouchsafed  to  use  the 
flowers  of  it;  sith  all  his^  kindes  are  not  onlie  in  their  united  formes  but 
in  their  severed  dissections  fully  commendable,  I  think  (and  think  I 
thinke  rightly)  the  Lawrell  crowne  appointed  for  triumphing  Captaines, 
doth  worthilie  (of  al  other  learnings)  honor  the  Poets  tryumph. 

So  that  sith  the  ever-praiseworthy  Poesie  is  full  of  vertue-breeding  de- 
lightf nines,  and  voyde  of  no  gyfte  that  ought  to  be  in  the  noble  name  of 
learning;  sith  the  blames  laid  against  it  are  either  false  or  feeble;  sith  the 

>  Than.   '  Valor.    ^  Since.   *  Hunaan,    ^  Conception.  •  Its  not  yet  in  the  language, 


102         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

cause  why  it  is- not  esteemed  in  Englande  is  the  fault  of  Poet-apes  not 
Poets;  sitli,  lastly,  our  tongue  is  most  fit  to  honor  Poesie,  and  to  bee  hon- 
ored by  Poesie,  I  conjure  you  all  that  have  had  the  evill  lucke  to  reade 
this  incke-wasting  toy  of  mine,  even  in  the  name  of  the  nyne  Muses  no 
more  to  scorne  the  sacred  misteries  of  Poesie;  no  more  to  laugh  at  the 
name  of  Poets,  as  though  they  were  next  inheri tours  to  Fooles;  no  more 
to  jest  at  the  reverent  title  of  Rymer:  but  to  beleeve  with  Aristotle  that 
they  were  the  auncient  Treasurers  of  the  Graecians  Divinity;  to  beleeve 
with  Bembus  that  they  were  first  bringers  in  of  all  civilitie;  to  beleeve 
with  Scaliger  that  no  Philosophers  precepts  can  sooner  make  you  an 
honest  man,  then  the  reading  of  Virgill;  to  beleeve  with  Clauserus  that 
it  pleased  the  heavenly  Deitie,  by  Hesiod  and  Homer,  under  the  vayle  of 
fables,  to  give  us  all  knowledge,  Logick,  Rethorick,  Philosophy,  natu- 
ral! and  morall;  to  beleeve  with  me  that  there  are  many  misteries  con- 
tained in  Poetrie,  which  of  purpose  were  written  darkely,  lest  by  pro- 
phane  wits  it  should  bee  abused ;  to  beleeve  with  Landin  that  they  are 
so  beloved  of  the  Gods  that  whatsoever  they  write  proceeds  of  a  divine 
fury;  lastly,  to  beleeve  themselves  when  they  tell  you  they  will  make 
you  im.rtioAall  by  tlieirvj^rsves* 

Thus  doing,  your  halhe  shal  florish  in  the  Printers  shoppes ;  thus  do- 
inj^;  joii  ^hail  bee  ^f  kiimp,  to  inany  a  poeticall  Preface ;  thus  doing, 
y6u  shall  be  most  fay/o,  most  ritch,  most  wise,  most  all,  you  shall 
dwell  upon  Superlatives;  thus  doing,  though  you  be  Libertino  patre 
natus,^  you  shall  suddenly  grow  Hercules  proles;'^  thus  doing,  your 
soule  shal  be  placed  with  Dantes  Beatrix  or  Virgils  Anchises.  But  if 
(fie  of  such  a  but)  you  be  borne  so  neere  the  dull  making  Cataphract 
of  Nilus^  that  you  cannot  heare  the  Plannet-like  Musick  of  Poetrie; 
if  you  have  so  earth-creeping  a  mind  that  it  cannot  lift  it  selfe  up 
to  looke  to  the  sky  of  Poetry;  or  rather,  by  a  certaine  rusticall  dis- 
daine  will  become  such  a  Mome'^  as  to  be  a  Momus^  of  Poetry;  then, 
though  I  will  not  wish  unto  you  the  Asses  eares  of  Midas,^  nor  to  bee 
driven  by  a  Poets  verses  (as  Bubonax  was)  to  hang  himself e,  nor  to  be 
rimed  to  death,  as  is  sayd  to  be  doone  in  Ireland;  yet  thus  much  curse  I 
must  send  you  in  the  behalfe  of  all  Poets,  that,  while  you  live,  you  live 
in  love  and  never  get  favour  for  lacking  skill  of  a  Sonnet;  and  when 
you  die,  your  memory  die  from  the  earth  for  want  of  an  Epitaph. 


1  Of  a  father  who  was  a  freedman.  2  of  the  race  of  Hercules  (son  of  Jupiter). 
'  There  were  three  celebrated  cataracts  of  the  Nile.  •*  A  dolt.  ^  God  of  raillery. 
9  Ears  lengthened  for  holding  Pan's  reed  to  be  superior  to  Apollo's  lyre. 


Prose — Hooker's.  103 


From  Hooker's  Ecclesiastical  Polity. 

The  stateliness  of  houses,  the  goodliness  of  trees,  when  we  behold  them, 
delighteth  the  eye ;  but  that  foundation  which  beareth  up  the  one,  that 
root  which  rainistereth  to  the  other  nourishment  and  life  are  in  the 
bosom  of  the  earth  concealed;  and,  if  there  be  at  any  time  occasion  to 
search  into  it,  such  labor  is  then  more  necessary  than  pleasant  both  to 
them  which  undertake  it  and  for  the  lookers  on.  In  like  manner,  the 
use  and  benefit  of  good  laws  all  that  live  under  them  may  enjoy  with 
delight  and  comfort;  albeit  the  grounds  and  first  original  causes  from 
which  they  have  sprung  be  unknown,  as  to  the  greater  part  of  men  they 
are.  But  when  they  who  withdraw  their  obedience  pretend  that  the 
laws  which  they  should  obey  are  corrupt  and  vicious,  for  better  exami- 
nation of  their  quality  it  behoveth  the  very  foundation  and  root,  the 
highest  well-spring  and  fountain  of  them,  to  be  discovered. 

All  things  that  are  have  some  operation  not  violent  or  casual.  Neither 
doth  anything  ever  begin  to  exercise  the  same  without  some  fore-con- 
ceived end  for  which  it  worketh.  And  the  end  which  it  worketh  for  is 
not  obtained  unless  the  work  be  also  fit  to  obtain  it  by.  For  unto  every 
end  every  operation  will  not  serve.  That  which  doth  assign  unto  each 
thing  the  kind,  that  which  doth  moderate  the  force  and  power,  that 
which  doth  appoint  the  form  and  measure  of  working,  the  same  we 
term  a  Law.  So  that  no  certain  end  could  ever  be  obtained  unless  the 
actions  whereby  it  is  obtained  were  regular,  that  is  to  say,"  made  suit- 
able, fit,  and  correspondent  with  their  end  by  some  canon,  rule,  or  law. 

As  it  Cometh  to  pass  in  a  kingdom  rightly  ordered  that  after  a  law 
is  once  published  it  presently  takes  effect  far  and  wide,  all  states  fram- 
ing themselves  thereunto,  even  so  let  us  think  it  fareth  in  the  natural 
course  of  the  world ;  since  the  time  that  God  did  first  proclaim  the  edicts 
of  his  law  upon  it,  heaven  and  earth  have  liearkened  unto  his  voice, 
and  their  labor  hath  been  to  do  his  will.  "  He  made  a  law  for  the  rain; 
he  gave  his  decree  unto  the  sea,  that  the  waters  should  not  pass  his 
commandment."  Now,  if  nature  should  intermit  her  course,  and  leave 
altogether,  though  it  were  but  for  a  while,  the  observation'  of  her  own 
laws;  if  those  principal  and  mother  elements  of  the  world,  whereof  all 
things  in  this  lower  world  are  made,  should  lose  the  qualities  which 
now  they  have ;  if  the  frame  of  that  heavenly  arch  erected  over  our 
heads  should  loosen  and  dissolve  itself;  if  celestial  spheres  should  forget 
their  wonted  motions,  and  by  irregular  volubilities^  turn  themselves  any 
way  as  it  might  happen;  if  the  prince  of  the  lights  of  heaven,  which  now 


'  Observance.  ^  Txirnings. 


104         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

as  a  giant  doph  run  liis  unwearied  course,  should,  as  it  were  through 
a  languishing  faintness,  begin  to  stand  and  to  rest  himself;  if  the  moon 
should  wander  from  her  beaten  way;  the  times  and  seasons  of  the  year 
blend  themselves  by  disordered  and  confused  mixture;  the  winds 
breathe  out  their  last  gasp ;  the  clouds  yield  no  rain ;  the  earth  be  de- 
feated of  heavenly  influence;  the  fruits  of  the  earth  pine  away  as  chil- 
dren at  the  withered  breasts  of  their  mother,  no  longer  able  to  yield 
them  relief;  what  would  become  of  man  himself,  whom  these  things 
now  do  all  serve?  See  we  not  plainly  that  obedience  of  creatures'  unto 
the  law  of  nature  is  the  stay  of  the  whole  world  ? 

Of  Law  there  can  be  no  less  acknowledged  than  that  her  seat  is  the 
bosom  of  God,  her  voice  the  harmony  of  the  world.  All  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  do  her  homage;  the  very  least  as  feeling  her  care,  and 
the  greatest  as  not  exempted  from  her  power:  both  angels  and  men, 
a,nd  creatures  of  what  condition  soever,  though  eacii  in  different  sort 
and  manner,  yet  all  with  uniform  consent,  admiring  her  as  the  mother 
of  their  peace  and  joy. 


From  Bacon's  Essays. 

Of  Great  Place. — Men  in  great  place  are  thrice  servants — servants  of  the 
sovereign  or  state,  servants  of  fame,  and  servants  of  business;  so  as*  they 
have  no  freedom,  neither  in  their  persons  nor  in  their  actions  nor  in  their 
times.  It  is  a  strange  desire  to  seek  power  and  to  lose  liberty,  or  to  seek 
power  over  others  and  to  lose  power  over  a  man's  self.  The  rising  unto 
place  is  laborious,  and  by  pains  men  come  to  greater  pains;  and  it  is  some- 
times base,  and  by  indignities  men  come  to  dignities.  The  standing  is 
slippery, and  the  regress  is  either  a  downfall  or  at  least  an  eclipse,  which 
is  a  melancholy  thing.  Nay,  men  cannot  retire  when  they  would, 
neither  will  they  when  it  were  reason, =^  but  are  impatient  of  privateness, 
even  in  age  and  sickness,  which  require  the  shadow;  like  old  towns- 
men that  will  be  still  sitting  at  their  street  door,  though  thereby  they 
offer  age  to  scorn.  Certainly  great  persons  had  need  to  borrow  other 
men's  opinions  to  think  themselves  happy,  for,  it  ihey  judge  by  their 
own  feeling,  they  cannot  find  it;  but,  if  they  think  with  themselves  w^hat 
other  men  think  of  them,  and  that  other  men  would  fain  be  as  they 
are,  then  they  are  happy  as  it  were  by  report,  when,  perhaps,  they  find 
the  contrary  within ;  for  they  are  the  first  that  find  their  own  griefs, 
though  they  be  the  last  that  find  their  own  faults. 

*  Created  things.  '  That.  ^  Reasonable, 


Prose — Baco7i^s.  105 


Certainly  men  in  great  fortunes  are  strangers  to  tliemselves;  and, 
while  they  are  in  the  puzzle  of  business,  they  have  no  time  to  tend 
their  health  either  of  body  or  mind.  In  place  there  is  license  to  do  good 
and  evil,  whereof  the  latter  is  a  curse;  for,  in  evil,  the  best  condition  is 
not  to  will,'  the  second  not  to  can.''  But  power  to  do  good  is  the  true 
and  lawful  end  of  aspiring;  for  good  thoughts,  though  God  accept 
them,  yet  towards  men  are  little  better  than  good  dreams  except  they  be 
put  in  act,  and  that  cannot  be  without  power  and  place  as  the  vantage 
and  commanding  ground.  Merit  and  good  works  are  the  end  of  man's 
motion,  and  conscience^  of  the  same  is  the  accomplishment  of  man's 
rest;  for  if  a  man  can  be  partaker  of  God's  theatre,'^  he  shall  likewise 
be  partaker  of  God's  rest. 

Of  Youth  and  Age. — Young  men  are  fitter  to  invent  than  to  judge, 
fitter  for  execution  than  for  counsel,  and  fitter  for  new  projects  than  for 
settled  business;  for  the  experience  of  age,  in  things  that  fall  within 
the  compass  of  it,  directeth  them,  but  in  new  things  abuseth  them.  The 
errors  of  young  men  are  the  ruin  of  business,  but  the  errors  of  aged 
men  amount  but  to  this — that  more  might  have  been  done,  or  sooner. 
Young  men,  in  the  conduct  and  manage^  of  actions,  embrace  more  than 
they  can  hold;  stir  more  than  they  can  quiet;  fly  to  the  end  without  con- 
sideration of  the  means  and  degrees;  pursue  some  few  principles  which 
they  have  chanced  upon,  absurdly ;  care  not^  to  innovate,  which  draws 
unknown  inconveniences;  use  extreme  remedies  at  first;  and  that,  which 
doubleth  all  errors,  will  not  acknowledge  or  retract  them,  like  an  un- 
ready horse  that  will  neither  stop  nor  turn. 

Men  of  age  object  too  much,  consult  too  long,  adventure  too  little, 
repent  too  soon,  and  seldom  drive  business  home  to  the  full  period,' 
but  content  themselves  with  the  mediocrity  of  success.  Certainly  it  is 
good  to  compound  employments  of  both ;  for  that  will  be  good  for  the 
present,  because  the  virtues  of  either  age  may  correct  the  defects  of 
both  ;^  and  good  for  succession ,  that  young  men  may  be  learners  while 
men  in  age  are  actors;  and,  lastly,  good  for  extern^  accidents,  because 
authority  followeth  old  men,  and  favor  and  popularity  youth;  but, 
for  the  moral  part,  perhaps,  youth  will  have  the  preeminence,  as  age 
hath  for  the  politic.  A  certain  rabbin,  upon  the  text,  "  Your  young  men 
shall  see  visions,  and  your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams,"  inferreth  that 
young  men  are  admitted  nearer  to  God  than  old,  because  vision  is  a 
clearer  revelation  than  a  dream ;  and,  certainly,  the  more  a  man  drink- 


^  Desire.         '  Be  able.         '  Consciousness.         *  Work.         ^  Management. 
« Are  not  cautious.  ''  Extent.  ^  The  other.  *  Outward, 


106         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

eth  of  the  world,  the  more  it  intoxicateth;  and  age  doth  profit  rather 
in  the  powers  of  understanding  than  in  the  virtues  of  the  will  and 
affections. 

From  Bacon's  Advancement  of  Learning. 

For  the  conceit'  that  learning  should  dispose  men  to  leisure  and  private- 
ness'^  and  make  men  slothful,  it  were  a  strange  thing  if  that  which  ac- 
custometh  the  mind  to  a  perpetual  motion  and  agitation  should  induce 
slothfulness;  whereas,  contrariwise,  it  may  be  truly  affirmed  that  no  kind 
of  men  love  business  for  itself  but  those  that  are  learned;  for  other 
persons  love  it  for  profit,  as  an  hireling,  that  loves  the  work  for  the 
wages ;  or  for  honor,  as  because  it  beareth  ihem  up  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
and  refresheth  their  reputation,  which  otherwise  would  wear;  or  be- 
cause it  putteth  them  in  mind  of  their  fortune,  and  giveth  them  occasion 
to  pleasure  or  displeasure ;  or  because  it  exerciseth  some  faculty  wherein 
they  take  pride,  and  so  entertaineth  them  in  good  humor  and  pleasing 
conceits  toward  themselves;  or  because  it  advanceth  any  other  their  ends. 

So  that  as  it  is  said  of  untrue  valors,  that  some  men's  valors  are  in 
the  eyes  of  them  that  look  on;  so  such  men's  industries  are  in  the 
eyes  of  others,  or  at  least  in  regard  of  their  own  designments:^  only 
learned  men  love  business  as  an  action  according  to  nature,  as  agreeable 
to  health  of  mind  as  exercise  is  to  health  of  body,  taking  pleasure  in  the 
action  itself  and  not  in  the  purchase;^  so  that  of  all  men  they  are  the 
most  indefatigable,  if  it  be  towards  any  business  which  can  hold  or  de- 
tain their  mind.  And  if  any  man  be  laborious  in  reading  and  study 
and  yet  idle  in  business  and  action,  it  groweth  from  some  weakness  of 
body  or  softness  of  spirit  and  not  of  learning.  Well  may  it  be  that  such 
a  point  of  a  man's  nature  may  make  him  give  himself  to  learning,  but 
it  is  not  learning  that  breedeth  any  such  point  in  his  nature. 

And  that  learning  should  take  up  too  much  time  or  leisure,  I  answer, 
the  most  active  or  busy  man  that  hath  been  or  can  be  hath  (no  question) 
many  vacant  times  of  leisure,  while  he  expecteth  the  tides  and  returns 
of  business,  and  then  the  question  is  but  how  those  spaces  and  times  of 
leisure  shall  be  filled  and  spent,  whether  in  pleasures  or  in  studies;  as 
was  well  answered  by  Demosthenes  to  his  adversary,  ^schines,  that 
was  a  man  given  to  pleasure  and  told  him  that  his  orations  did  smell  of 
the  lamp.  "Indeed,"  said  Demosthenes,  "there  is  a  great  difference 
between  the  things  that  you  and  I  do  by  lamp  light."  So  as  no  man 
need  doubt^  that  learning  will  expulse®  business,  but  rather  it  will  keep 

1  Conception.     »  Privacy.     ^  Designs.     *  Acquisition.     *  Fear.    « Drive  out. 


Poetry — Spenser.  107 


and  defend  the  possession  of  the  mind  against  idleness  and  pleasure, 
which  otherwise  at  unawares  may  enter  to  the  prejudice  of  both. 

Again,  for  that  other  conceit  that  learning  should  undermine  the  rev- 
erence of  laws  and  government,  it  is  assuredly  a  mere  depravation'  and 
calumny,  without  all  shadow  of  truth.  For  to  say  that  a  blind  custom 
of  obedience  should  be  a  surer  obligation  than  duty  taught  and  under- 
stood—it is  to  affirm  that  a  blind  man  may  tread  surer  by  a  guide  than 
a  seeing  man  can  by  a  light.  And  it  is  without  all  controversy  that 
learning  doth  make  the  minds  of  men  gentle,  generous,  maniable,^  and 
pliant  to  government;  whereas  ignorance  makes  them  churlish,  thwart^ 
and  mutinous:  and  the  evidence  of  time  doth  clear^  this  assertion,  con- 
sidering that  the  most  barbarous,  rude,  and  unlearned  times  have  been 
most  subject  to  tumults,  seditions,  and  changes. 

And  as  to  the  judgment  of  Cato  the  Censer,  he  was  well  punished  for 
his  blasphemy  against  learning,  in  the  same  kind  wherein  he  offended ; 
for,  when  he  was  past  threescore  years  old,  he  was  taken  with  an  ex- 
treme desire  to  go  to  school  again  and  to  learn  the  Greek  tongue,  to 
the  end  to  peruse  the  Greek  authors;  which  doth  well  demonstrate  that 
his  former  censure^  of  the  Grecian  learning  was  rather  an  affected  grav- 
ity than  according  to  the  inward  sense  of  his  own  opinion.  And  as 
for  Virgil's  verses,  though  it  pleased  him  to  brave  the  world  in  taking 
to  the  Romans  the  art  of  empire  and  leaving  to  others  the  arts  of  sub- 
jects; yet  so  much  is  manifest  that  the  Romans  never  ascended  to  that 
height  of  empire  till  the  time  they  had  ascended  to  the  height  of  other 
arts. 


LESSON     21. 

The  Later  Poetry  of  the  Elizabethan  Literature, 
1579-1603.  Edmund  Spenser. —  ''The  later  Elizabethan 
poetry  begins  with  the  Shepheardes  Calender  of  Spen"Ser. 
Spenser  was  born  in  London,  1552,  and  educated  at  Merchant 
Taylor's  School  and  at  Cambridge,  which  he  left  at  the  age  of 
twenty-four.  His  early  boyhood  was  passed  in  London,  and 
he  went  frequently  to  an  English  home  among  the  glens  of 
Lancashire.  He  returned  thither  after  he  left  Cambridge,  and 
fell  in  loYe  with  a  'fair  widowe's  daughter  of  the  glen,'  whom 

1  Slander.       '  Manageable,       » Perverse.       *  Make  clear.       « Opinion. 


108         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

he  called  Kosalind.     His  love  was  not  returned,  and  her  cold- 
ness drove  him  southward. 

His  college  friend,  Gabriel  Harvey,  made  him  known  to 
Leicester,  and  probably,  since  Harvey  was  ^Leicester's  man,' 
to  Philip  Sidney,  Leicester's  nephew;  and  it  was  at  Sidney's 
house  of  Penshurst  that  the  Shepheardes  Calender  was  made, 
and  the  Faerie  Queen  begun.  The  publication  of  the  former 
work  in  1579  at  once  made  Spenser  the  first  poet  of  the  day, 
and  its  literary  freshness  was  such  that  men  felt  that,  for  the 
first  time  since  Chaucer,  England  had  given  birth  to  a  great 
poet.  It  was  a  pastoral  poem,  divided  into  twelve  eclogues, 
one  for  each  month  of  the  year.  Shepherds  and  shepherd 
life  were  mixed  in  its  verse  with  complaints  for  his  lost  love, 
with  a  desire  for  Church  reform,  with  loyalty  to  the  Queen. 
It  marks  the  strong  love  of  old  English  poetry  by  its  reference 
to  Chaucer,  though  it  is  in  form  imitated  from  the  French 
pastoral  of  Clement  Marot.  The  only  tie  it  really  has  to 
Chaucer  is  in  the  choice  of  disused  English  words  and  spell- 
ing, a  i^ractice  of  Spenser's  which  somewhat  spoils  the  Faerie 
Queen.  The  Puritanism  of  the  poem  does  not  lie  in  any  at- 
tack on  the  Episcopal  theory,  but  in  an  attack  on  the  sloth 
and  pomp  of  the  clergy,  and  in  a  demand  for  a  nobler  moral 
life.     It  is  the  same  in  the  Faerie  Queen, 

The  Faerie  Queen. — The  twelve  books  of  this  poem  were 
to  represent'  the  twelve  moral  virtues,  each  in  the  person  of  a 
knight  who  was  to  conquer  all  the  separate  sins  and  errors 
which  were  at  battle  with  the  virtue  he  personified.  In 
Arthur,  the  king  of  the  company,  the  Magnificence  of  the 
whole  of  virtue  was  to  be  represented,  and  he  was  at  last  to 
arrive  at  union  with  the  Faerie  Queen,  that  divine  glory  of 
God  to  which  all  human  thought  and  act  aspired.  This  was 
Spenser's  Puritanism — the  desire  after  a  perfectly  pure  life  for 
State  and  Church  and  Man.  It  was  opposed  in  State  and 
Church,  he  held,  by  the  power  of  Eome,  which  he  paints  as 
Puessa,  the  falsehood  which  wears  the  garb  of  truth,  and  who 


Poetry — Spenser.  109 


also  serves  to  represent  lier  in  whom  Catholicism  most  threat- 
ened England — Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  Puritan  in  this  sense, 
he  is  not  Puritan  in  any  other.  He  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  attack  on  Prelacy  which  was  then  raging,  and  the  last 
canto  of  the  Faerie  Queen  represents  Calidore,  the  knight  of 
conrtesy,  sent  forth  to  bridle  'the  blatant  beast,'  the  many- 
tongued  and  noisy  Presbyterian  body  which  attacked  the 
Church. 

The  poem,  however,  soars  far  above  this  region  of  debate 
into  the  calm  and  pure  air  of  art.  It  is  the  poem  of  the  hu- 
man soul  and  all  its  po-wers  struggling  towards  the  perfect 
love,  the  love  which  is  God.  Filled  full  with  christianized 
platonism,  the  ideas  of  truth,  justice,  temperance,  courtesy  do 
not  remain  ideas  In  Spenser's  mind,  as  in  Plato's,  but  become 
real  personages,  whose  lives  and  battles  he  honors  and  tells  in 
verse  so  delicate,  so  gliding,  and  so  steeped  in  the  finer  life  of 
poetry,  that  he  has  been  called  the  poet's  poet. 

As  the  nobler  Puritanism  of  the  time  is  found  in  it,  so  also 
are  the  other  influences  of  the  time.  It  goes  back,  as  men 
were  doing  then,  to  the  old  times  for  its  framework,  to  the 
Celtic  story  of  Arthur  and  his  knights,  which  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth  and  Chaucer  and  Thomas  Malory  had  loved.  It 
represents  the  new  love  of  chivalry,  the  new  love  of  classical 
learning,  the  new  delight  in  mystic  theories  of  love  and 
religion.  It  is  full  of  those  allegorical  schemes  in  which- doc- 
trines and  heresies,  virtues  and  vices  were  contrasted  and 
personified.  It  takes  up  and  uses  the  popular  legends  of 
fairies,  dwarfs,  and  giants,  and  mingles  them  with  the  savages 
and  the  wonders  of  the  New  World,  of  which  the  voyagers 
told  in  every  company.  Nearly  the  whole  spirit  of  the  Eng- 
lish Renaissance  under  Elizabeth,  except  its  coarser  and  baser 
elements,  is  in  its  pages.  Of  anything  impure  or  ugly  or 
violent,  there  is  not  a  trace.  Spenser  walks  through  the 
whole  of  this  woven  world  of  faerie, 

*With  the  moon's  beauty  aud  the  moon's  soft  pace.' 


110         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

The  first  three  books  were  finished  in  Ireland,  whither  he 
had  gone  as  secretary  to  Lord  Grey  of  Wilton  in  1580. 
Raleigh  listened  to  them  in  1589  at  Kilcolman  Castle,  among 
the  alder  shades  of  the  river  Mulla,  that  fed  the  lake  below 
the  castle.  Delighted  with  the  poem,  he  took  Spenser  to 
England.  The  books  were  published  m  1590,  and  the  Queen, 
the  Court,  and  the  whole  of  England  soon  shared  in  Raleigh's 
delight.  It  was  the  first  great  ideal  poem  that  England  had 
produced,  and  it  is  the  source  of  all  our  modern  poetry.  It  has 
neyer  ceased  to  make  poets,  and  it  will  not  lose  its  power 
while  our  language  lasts." 

"The  interest  in  The  Faerie  Queen  is  twofold.  There  is  the  interest 
of  the  moral  picture  which  it  presents,  and  there  is  the  interest  of  it  as  a 
work  of  poetical  art. 

The  moral  picture  is  of  the  ideal  of  noble  manliness  in  Elizabeth's  time. 
Besides  the  writers  and  the  thinkers,  the  statesmen  and  the  plotters,  the 
traders  and  the  commons,  of  that  fruitful  and  vigorous  age,  there  were 
the  men  of  action — the  men  who  fought  in  France  and  the  Netherlands 
and  Ireland;  the  men  who  created  the  English  navy,  and  showed 
how  it  could  be  used ;  the  men  who  tried  for  the  north-west  passage  with 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  and  sailed  round  the  world  with  Sir  Francis 
Drake,  and  planted  colonies  in  America  with  Sir  Walter  Raleigh;  the 
men  who  chased  the  Armada  to  destruction,  and  dealt  the  return  buffet 
to  Spanish  pride  in  the  harbor  of  Cadiz;  men  who  treated  the  sea  as  the 
rightful  dominion  of  their  mistress,  and,  seeking  adventures  on  it  far 
and  near,  with  or  without  her  leave,  reaped  its  rich  harvests  of  plunder 
from  Spanish  treasure-ships  and  West  Indian  islands,  or  from  the  ex- 
posed towns  and  churches  of  the  Spanish  coast.  They  were  at  once  men 
of  daring  enterprise,  and  sometimes  very  rough  execution ;  and  yet  men 
with  all  the  cultivation  and  refinement  of  the  time— courtiers,  scholars, 
penmen,  poets  These  are  the  men  whom  Spenser  had  before  his  eyes 
in  drawing  his  knights — their  ideas  of  loyalty,  of  gallantry,  of  the 
worth  and  use  of  life, — their  aims,  their  enthusiasm,  their  temptations, 
their  foes,  their  defeats,  their  triumphs. 

As  a  work  of  art  The  Faerie  Queen  at  once  astonishes  us  by  the  won- 
derful fertility  and  richness  of  the  writer's  invention  and  imagination, 
by  the  facility  with  which  he  finds  or  makes  language  for  his  needs, 
and,  above  all,  by  the  singular  music  and  sweetness  of  his  verse.  The 
main  theme  seldom  varies:  it  is  a  noble  knight,  fighting,  overcoming, 
tempted,  delivered;  or  a  beautiful  lady,  plotted  against,  distressed,  in 


Poetry — Spenser.  Ill 

danger,  rescued.    The  poet's  affluence  of  fancy  and  speech  gives  a  new 
turn  and  color  to  each  adventure. 

But,  besides  tliat  under  these  conditions  there  must  be  monotony,  the 
poet's  art,  admirable  as  it  is,  gives  room  for  objections.  Spenser's  style 
is  an  imitation  of  the  antique;  and  an  imitation,  however  good,  must 
want  the  master  charm  of  naturalness,  reality,  simple  truth.  And  in 
his  system  of  work,  with  his  brightness  and  quickness  and  fluency,  he 
wanted  self-restraint — the  power  of  holding  himself  in,  and  of  judging 
soundly  of  fitness  and  proportion.  There  was  a  looseness  and  careless- 
ness, partly  belonging  to  his  age,  partly  his  own.  In  the  use  of  mate- 
rials, nothing  comes  amiss  to  him.  He  had  no  scruples  as  a  copyist. 
He  took  without  ceremony  any  piece  of  old  metal— word  or  story  or 
image — which  came  to  his  hand,  and  threw  it  into  the  melting-pot  of 
his  imagination  to  come  out  fused  with  his  own  materials,  often  trans- 
formed, but  often  unchanged.  The  effect  was  sometimes  happy,  but 
not  always  so." — B.  W.  Church. 

Spenser's  Minor  Poems.— '*  The  next  year,  1591,  Spenser, 
being  still  in  England,  collected  his  smaller  poems  and  pub- 
lished them.  Among  them  Mother  Huhbard's  Tale  is  a  bright 
imitation  of  Chaucer,  and  the  Tears  of  the  Muses  sui^-poTts 
my  statement  that  literature  was  looked  on  coldly  previous  to 
1580,  by  the  comjolaint  the  Muses  make  in  it  of  their  subjects' 
being  despised  in  England.  Sidney  had  died  in  1586,  and 
three  of  these  poems  bemoan  his  death.  The  others  are  of 
slight  importance,  and  the  whole  collection  was  entitled  Com- 
plaints.  Returning  to  Ireland,  he  gave  an  account  of  his  visit 
in  Colin  Cloufs  coine  Home  again,  1591,  and  at  last,  after 
more  than  a  year's  pursuit,  won  his  second  love  for  his  wife, 
and  found  with  her  perfect  happiness.  A  long  series  of  Son- 
nets records  the  progress  of  his  wooing,  and  the  Ejnthalamion , 
his  marriage  hymn,  is  the  most  glorious  love-song  in  the  Eng- 
lish tongue.  At  the  close  of  1595  he  carried  to  England,  in 
a  second  visit,  the  last  three  books  of  the  Faerie  Queen.  The 
next  year  he  spent  in  London,  and  published  these  books 
with  his  other  poems,  the  Prothalamion  on  the  marriage  of 
Lord  Worcester's  daughters,  and  his  Hymnes  to  Love  and 
Beauty,  and  to  Heavenly  Love  and  Beauty,  in  which  the  love 
philosophy  of  Petrarca  is  enshrined.     The  end  of  his  life  was 


112         Literature  of  Period  7F.,  1558-1603. 

sorrowful.  In  1598  the  Irish  rising  took  place,  his  castle  was 
burnt,  and  he  and  his  family  fled  for  their  lives  to  England. 
Broken-hearted,  poor,  but  not  forgotten,  the  poet  died  in  a 
London  tavern.  All  his  fellows  went  with  his  body  to  the 
grave  where,  close  by  Chaucer,  he  lies  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
London,  *his  most  kindly  nurse,'  takes  care  also  of  his  dust, 
and  England  keeps  him  in  her  love." 

Bibliography.  Spenser.— G.  L.  Craik's  Spenser  and  his  Poetry  ;  Eng.  Men  of  Let- 
^e>-s  Series;  Ward's  Anthology;  Disraeli's  Amen,  of  Lit.;  Howitt's  Homes  of  the 
Brit.  Poets,  vol.  1;  Lowell's  Among  my  Books,  2d  Ser.;  Whipple's  Lit.  of  the  age  of 
Eliz.;  Clar.  Piess  Ed.  of  Faerie  Queen;  Minto's  Char,  of  Eng.  Poets  ;  Atlantic,  v.  2, 
1858;  West.  Rev.,  v.  87,  1867;  AUibon  >,  v.  2. 

From  Spenser's  Faerie  Queen. 
Thus  being  eutred,  they  behold  around 
A  large  and  spacious  plaine,  on  every  side 
Strowed  with  pleasauns;^  whose  faire  grassy  ground 
Mantled  with  greene,  and  goodly  beautifide 
With  all  the  ornaments  of  Floraes  pride, 
Wherewith  her  mother  Art,  as  halfe  in  scorne 
Of  niggard  Nature,  like  a  pompous  bride 
Did  decke  her,  and  too  lavishly  adorne, 
When  forth  from  virgin  bowre  she  comes  in  th'  early  morne. 

Thereto  the  hevens  alwayes  joviall 
Lookt  on  them  lovely,  still  in  stedfast  state, 
Ne  suffred  slormc  nor  frost  on  them  to  fall, 
Their  tender  buds  or  leaves  to  violate : 
Nor  scorching  heat,  nor  cold  intemperate, 
T'afflict  the  creatures  which  therein  did  dwell; 
But  the  milde  aire  with  season  moderate 
Gently  attempred,  and  disposed  so  well 
That  still  it  breathed  forth  sweet  spirit  and  holesome'-'  smell : 

More  sweet  and  holesome  then^  the  pleasaunt  hill 
Of  Rhodope,^  on  which  the  nimphe  that  bore 
A  gyaunt  babe  her  selfe  for  grief e  did  kill ; 
Or  the  Thessalian  Tempe,^  where  of  yore 
Faire  Daphne  Phoebus  hart  with  love  did  gore; 

1  Pleasantness.  2  Wholesome.  'Than. 

*  On  the  frontier  of  Thrace.  *  A  long,  deep  defile. 


Poetry — Spenser^  s.  113 

Or  Ida'  where  the  gods  lov'd  to  repaire, 
Whenever  they  their  hevenly  bowres  forlore; 
Or  sweet  Parnasse,^  the  haunt  of  muses  faire, 
Or  Eden  selfe,  if  ought  witli  Eden  mote  compaire. 

Much  wondred  Guy  on  at  the  faire  aspect 
Of  that  sweet  place,  yet  suffred  no  delight 
To  siucke  into  his  sence  nor  mind  affect; 
But  passed  forth,  and  lookt  still  forward  right, 
Bridling  his  will  and  maisteriug  his  might: 
Till  that  he  came  unto  another  gate ; 
No  gate,  but  like  one,  being  goodly  dight 
With  boughes  and  braunches,  which  did  broad  dilate 
Their  clasping  armes  in  wanton  wreathings  intricate. 

There  the  most  daintie  paradise  on  ground 
Itselfe  doth  offer  to  his  sober  eye, 
In  which  all  pleasures  plenteously  abownd, 
And  none  does  others  happinesse  envye ; 
The  painted  flowres,  the  trees  upshooting  liye, 
The  dales  for  shade,  the  hilles  for  breathing  space, 
The  trembling  groves,  the  christall  running  by; 
And  that,  which  all  faire  workes  doth  most  aggrace,^ 
The  art  which  all  that  wrought  appeared  in  no  place. 

One  would  have  thought,  so  cunningly  the  rude 
And  scorned  partes  were  mingled  with  the  tine, 
That  nature  had  for  wantonesse  ensude^ 
Art,  and  that  art  at  nature  did  repine; 
So  striving  each  th'  other  to  undermine, 
Each  did  the  others  worke  more  beautifie ; 
So  diff'ring  both  in  willes  agreed  in  fine:^ 
So  all  agreed,  through  sweete  diversitie, 
This  gardin  to  adorne  with  all  varietie. 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  a  fountaine  stood 
Of  richest  substance  that  on  earth  might  bee. 
So  pure  and  shiny  that  the  silver  flood 
Through  every  channell  running  one  might  see; 
Most  goodly  it  with  curious  imageree 

1  Hill  of  Phrygia.  2  -q\\\  sacred  to  the  Muses.  ^  Lend  favor  to. 

J  Followed  after.  5  End. 


114         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

Was  over-wrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boyes, 
Of  which  some  seemed  with  lively  jollitee 
To  fly  about,  playing  their  wanton  toyes,^ 
Whylest  others  did  th^tiselves  embay^  in  liquid  joyes. 

And  over  all  of  purest  gold  was  spred 
A  trayle  of  yvie  in  his  native  hew; 
For  the  rich  metall  was  so  coloured 
That  wight  ^  who  did  not  well  avis'd  it  vew, 
Would  surely  deeme  it  to  bee  yvie  trew : 
Low  his  lascivious  armes  adown  did  creepe, 
That  themselves  dipping  in  the  silver  dew 
Their  fleecy  flowres  they  fearfully  did  steepe, 
Which  drops  of  christall  seemed  for  wantones  to  weepe. 

Inflnit  streames  continually  did  well 
Out  of  this  fountaine,  sweet  and  faire  to  see, 
The  which  into  an  ample  laver^  fell, 
And  shortly  grew  to  so  great  quau title 
That  like  a  little  lake  it  seemd  to  bee; 
Whose  depth  exceeded  not  three  cubits  hight, 
That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom  see 
All  pav'd  beneath  with  jasper  shining  bright, 
That  seemed  the  fountaine  in  that  sea  did  sayle  upright. 

Eftsoones'  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound, 
Of  all  that  mote^  delight  a  daintie  eare, 
Such  as  attonce  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  paradise,  be  heard  elsewhere: 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight,  which  did  it  heare, 
To  read  what  manner  musicke  that  mote  bee; 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  eare 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmonee; 
Birdes,  voices,  instruments,  windes,  waters,  all  agree. 

The  joyous  birdes,  shrouded  in  chearefull  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voyce  attempred  sweet; 
Th'  angelicall,  soft,  trembling  voyces  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet; 

1  Sports.       2  Bathe.       3  Person.       ••  Basin.        "Forthwith.        « Could. 


Poetry— Love,  Patriotic,  and  PMlosophical.  115 


The  silver  sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmure  of  the  waters  fall ; 
The  waters  fall  with  difference  discreet, ' 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call; 
The  gentle,  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all. 

Further  Readings— in  Book  I.— Opening  stanzas  of  Canto  I. ;  some  stanzas  of 
Canto  n.,  beginning  with  the  seventh;  opening  stanzas  of  Canto  III.,  and  of  Canto 
IV.;  some  stanzas  of  Canto  V.,  beginning  with  the  eighteenth;  some  stanzas  of 
Canto  X.,  beginning  with  the  twelfth,  and  also  some  beginning  with  the  fifty-first; 
and  concluding  stanzas  of  Canto  XII.,  beginning  at  the  twentieth. 


Lessoist  22. 

The  Four  Phases  of  the  Latee  Elizabethan  Poetry. — 

"  Spenser  reflected  in  his  poems  the  spirit  of  the  English 
Renaissance.  The  other  poetry  of  Elizabeth's  reign  reflected 
the  whole  of  English  Life.  The  best  way  to  arrange  it — omit- 
ting as  yet  the  Drama — is  in  an  order  parallel  to  the  growth  of 
the  national  life,  and  the  proof  that  it  is  the  best  way  is  that 
on  the  whole  such  an  order  is  a  true  chronological  order. 

First,  then,  if  we  compare  England  after  1580,  as  writers 
have  often  done,  to  an  ardent  youth,  we  shall  find,  in  the 
poetry  of  the  first  years  that  followed  that  date,  all  the  ele- 
ments of  youth.  It  is  a  poetry  of  love  and  romance  and  fancy. 
Seco7idly,  and  later  on,  when  Englishmen  grew  older  in  feel- 
ing, their  unsettled  enthusiasm,  which  had  flitted  here  and 
there  in  action  and  literature  over  all  kinds  of  subjects,  settled 
down  into  a  steady  enthusiasm  for  England  itself.  The  country 
entered  on  its  early  manhood,  and  parallel  with  this  there  is 
the  great  outburst  of  historical  plays,  and  a  set  of  poets  whom 
I  will  call  the  patriotic  poets.  Thirdly,  and  later  still,  all 
enthusiasm  died  down  into  a  graver  and  more  thoughtful 
national  life,  and  parallel  with  this  are  the  tragedies  of  Shake- 
speare and  the  poets  whom  I  will  call  pTiilosopMcal.  These 
three  classes  of  Poets  overlapped  one  another,  and  grew  up 

1  Varied. 


116         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

gradually,  but  on  the  whole  their  succession  represents  a  real 
succession  of  national  thought  and  emotion. 

A  fourth  and  separate  phase  does  not  represent,  as  these  do, 
a  new  national  life,  a  new  religion,  and  new  politics,  but  the 
despairing  struggle  of  the  old  faith  against  the  new.  There 
were  numbers  of  men  such  as  Wordsworth  has  finely  sketched 
in  old  Norton  in  the  Doe  of  Rylstone,  who  vainly  strove  in 
sorrow  against  all  the  new  national  elements.  Robert  South- 
well, of  Norfolk,  a  Jesuit  priest,  was  the  poet  of  Roman  Cath- 
olic England.  Imprisoned  for  three  years,  racked  ten  times, 
and  finally  executed,  he  wrote  during  his  prison  time  his  two 
longest  poems,  St.  Peter^s  Complaint^  and  Mary  Magdalene's 
Funeral  Tears,  and  it  marks  not  only  the  large  Roman  Cath- 
olic element  in  the  country  but  also  the  strange  contrasts  of 
the  time  that  eleven  editions  of  poems  with  these  titles  were 
published  between  1593  and  1600,  at  a  time  when  the  Venus 
and  Adonis  of  Shakespeare  led  the  way  for  a  multitude  of 
poems  that  sang  of  love  and  delight  and  England's  glory.  To 
the  first  three  we  now  turn. 

The  Love  Poetry. — I  have  called  it  by  this  name,  because  in 
all  its  best  work  (to  be  found  in  the  first  book  of  Mr.  Palgrave's 
'Golden  Treasury')  it  is  almost  limited  to  that  subject — the  sub- 
ject of  youth.  It  is  chiefly  composed  in  the  form  of  songs  and 
sonnets,  and  was  published  in  miscellanies  in  and  after  1600. 
The  most  famous  of  these,  in  which  men  like  Nicholas  Breton, 
Henry  Constable,  Rd.  Barnefield,  and  others  wrote,  are  Png- 
land's  Helicon  and  Davison's  Rhapsody  and  the  Passionate 
Pilgrim.  The  latter  contained  some  poems  of  Shakespeare, 
and  he  is  by  virtue  of  these,  and  the  songs  in  his  Dramas,  the 
best  of  these  lyric  writers.  The  songs  themselves  are  *  old  and 
pluin,  and  dallying  with  the  innocence  of  love.'  They  have 
natural  sweetness,  great  simplicity  of  speech,  and  directness 
of  statement.  Somej  as  Shakespeare's,  possess  a  '  passionate 
reality;'  others  a  quaint  pastoralism  like  shepherd  life  in  por- 
celain, such  as  Marlowe's  well  known  song,  '  Come  live  with 


Poetry — Lorn  and  Patriotic.  Ill 

me  and  be  my  love;'  others  a  splendor  of  love  and  beauty 
as  in  Lodge's  Song  of  Eosalifie,  and  Spenser's  on  his  mar- 
riage. 

The  sonnets  were  written  chiefly  in  series,  and  I  have 
already  said  that  such  writers  are  called  amourists.  Such 
were  Shakespeare's  and  the  Amoretti  of  Spenser,  and  those  to 
Diana  by  Constable.  They  were  sometimes  mixed  with  Can- 
zones and  Ballatas  after  the  Italian  manner,  and  the  best  of 
these  were  a  series  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney.  A  number  of  other 
sonnets  and  of  longer  love  poems  were  written  by  the  drama- 
tists before  Shakespeare,  by  Peele  and  Greene  and  Marlowe 
and  Lodge,  far  the  finest  being  the  Hero  and  Leander,  which 
Marlowe  left  as  a  fragment  to  be  completed  by  Chapman. 
Mingled  up  with  these  were  small  religious  poems,  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  Puritan  and  the  more  religious  Church  element  in 
English  society.  They  were  collected  under  such  titles  as  the 
Handful  of  Honeysuckles,  the  Poor  Widoufs  Mite,  Psalms 
and  Sonnets,  and  there  are  some  good  things  among  them 
written  by  William  Hunnis. 

In  one  Scotch  poet,  William  Drummond  of  Hawthorn-- 
DEN",  the  friend  of  Ben  Jon  son,  the  love  poet  and  the  relig- 
ious poet  were  united.  I  mention  him  Jiere,  though  his  work 
properly  belongs  to  the  reign  of  James  I.,  because  his  poetry 
really  goes  back  in  spirit  and  feeling  to  this  time.  He  cannot 
be  counted  among  the  true  Scottish  poets.  Drummond  is 
entirely  Elizabethan  and  English,  and  he  is  worthy  to  be 
named  among  the  lyrical  poets  below  Spenser  and  Shakespeare. 
His  love  sonnets  have  as  much  grace  as  Sidney's  and  less 
quaintness,  his  songs  have  often  the  grave  simplicity  of  Wyatt's, 
and  his  religious  poems,  especially  one  solemn  sonnet  on  John 
the  Baptist,  have  a  distant  resemblance  to  the  grandeur  of 
-Milton. 

The  Patriotic  Poetry.— Among  all  this  poetry  of  Romance, 
Chivalry,  Religion,  and  Love,  rose  a  poetry  which  devoted 
itself  to  the  glory  of  England.     It  was  chiefly  historical,  and 


118         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

as  it  may  be  said  to  have  had  its  germ  in  the  Mirror  of  Magis^ 
trates,  so  it  had  its  perfect  flower  in  the  historical  drama  of 
Shakespeare.  Men  had  now  begun  to  have  a  great  pride  in 
England.  She  had  stepped  into  the  foremost  rank,  had  out- 
witted France,  subdued  internal  foes,  beaten  and  humbled 
Spain  on  every  sea.  Hence  the  history  of  the  land  became 
precious,  and  the  very  rivers  and  hills  and  plains  honorable, 
and  to  be  sung  and  praised  in  verse.  This  poetic  impulse  is 
best  represented  in  the  works  of  three  men — William  War- 
ner, Samuel  Daniel,  and  Michael  Drayton.  Born  within 
a  few  years  of  each  other,  about  1560,  they  all  lived  beyond  the 
century,  and  the  national  poetry  they  set  on  foot  lasted  when 
the  romantic  poetry  died. 

William  Warner's  great  book  was  Albion^ s  England, 
1586,  a  history  of  England  in  verse  from  the  Deluge  to  Queen 
Elizabeth.  It  is  clever,  humorous,  crowded  with  stories,  and 
runs  to  10,000  lines.  Its  popularity  was  great,  and  the  Eng- 
lish in  which  it  was  written  deserved  it.  Such  stories  as  Ar- 
gentile  and  Curan  and  the  Patient  Countess  prove  him  to 
have  had  a  true  and  pathetic  vein  of  poetry.  His  English  is 
not,  however,  better  than  that  of  ^  well-languaged  Daniel,' 
who,  among  tragedies  and  pastoral  comedies  and  poems  of  pure 
fancy,  wrote  in  verse  a  j^rosaic  History  of  the  Civil  Wars,  1595, 
as  we  have  already  found  him  writing  history  in  prose.  Spen- 
ser saw  in  him  a  new  *  shepherd 'of  poetry  who  did  far  sur- 
pass the  others,  and  Coleridge  says  that  the  style  of  his  Hy- 
men^s  Triumph  may  be  declared  'imperishable  English.' 

Of  the  three  the  greatest  poet  was  Drayton.  Two  historical 
poems  are  his  work — the  Civil  Wars  of  Edward  II.  and  the 
Barons,  and  England^ s  Heroical  Epistles,  1598.  Not  content 
with  these,  he  set  himself  to  glorify  the  whole  of  his  land  in  the 
PolyolMon,  thirty  books,  and  more  than  30,000  lines.  It  is  a 
description  in  Alexandrines  of  the  '  tracts,  mountains,  forests, 
and  other  parts  of  this  renowned  isle  of  Britain,  with  inter- 
mixture of  the  most  remarkable  stories,  antiquities,  wonders, 


Poetry — Philosophical  and  Translations.      119 

pleasures,  and  commodities  of  the  same,  digested  into  a  poem.' 
It  was  not  a  success,  though  it  deserved  success.  Its  great 
length  was  against  it,  but  the  real  reason  was,  that  this  kind 
of  poetry  had  had  its  day.  It  appeared  in  1613,  in  James  I, 's 
reign. 

Philosophical  Poetry. — Before  that  time  a  change  had 
come.  As  the  patriotic  poets  came  after  the  romantic,  so 
the  romantic  were  followed  by  the  philosophical  poets.  The 
youth  and  early  manhood  of  the  Elizabethan  poetry  passed, 
about  1600,  into  its  thoughtful  manhood.  The  land  was  set- 
tled; enterprise  ceased  to  be  the  first  thing;  men  sat  down  to 
think,  and  in  poetry  questions  of  religious  and  political  phi- 
losophy were  treated  with  *  sententious  reasoning,  grave,  sub- 
tile, and  condensed.'  Shakespeare,  in  his  passage  from  com- 
edy to  tragedy,  in  1601,  represents  this  change. 

The  two  poets  who  represent  it  are  Sir  Jko.  Davies  and 
FuLKE  Greville,  Lord  Brooke.  In  Davies  we  find  an  ad- 
mirable instance  of  it.  His  earlier  poem  of  the  Orchestra^ 
1596,  in  which  the  whole  world  is  explained  as  a  dance,  is  as 
gay  and  bright  as  Spenser.  His  later  poem,  1599,  is  compact 
and  vigorous  reasoning,  for  the  most  part  without  fancy.  Its 
very  title,  Nosce  te  ipsum — Know  Thyself — and  its  divisions, 
1.  '  On  humane  learning,'  2.  '  The  immortality  of  the  soul ' — 
mark  the  alteration.  Two  little  poems,  one  of  Bacon's,  on 
the  Life  of  Man,  as  a  bubble,  and  one  of  Sir  Hexry  Wot- 
ton's,  on  the  Character  of  a  Happy  Life,  are  instances 
of  the  same  change.  It  is  still  more  marked  in  Grevi lie's 
long,  obscure  poems  on  Human  Learning,  on  Wars,  and  on 
Monarchy  and  Religion.  They  are  political  and  historical 
treatises,  not  poems,  and  all  in  them,  says  Lamb,  '  is  made 
frozen  and  rigid  by  intellect.'  Apart  from  poetry,  'they  are 
worth  notice  as  an  indication  of  that  thinking  spirit  on 
political  science  which  was  to  produce  the  riper  speculations 
of  Hobbes,  Harrington,  and  Locke.' 

Translations. — There  are  three  translators  that  take  liter- 


120        Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

ary  rank  among  the  crowd  that  carried  on  the  work  of  the  earlier 
time.  Two  mark  the  influence  of  Italy,  one  the  more  power- 
ful influence  of  the  Greek  spirit.  Sir  John  Harington  in 
1591  translated  Ariosto's  Orlando  Ftirioso,  Fairfax  in  1600 
translated  Tasso's  Jerusalem,  and  his  book  is  ^one  of  the 
glories  of  Elizabeth's  reign.'  But  the  noblest  translation  is 
that  of  Homer's  whole  work  by  George  Chapman,  the  dram- 
atist, the  first  part  of  which  appeared  in  1598.  The  vivid 
life  and  energy  of  the  time,  its  creative  power,  and  its  force 
are  expressed  in  this  poem,  which  is  more  an  Elizabethan  tale 
written  about  Achilles  and  Ulysses  than  a  translation.  The 
rushing  gallop  of  the  long  fourteen  syllable  stanza  in  which  it 
is  written  has  the  fire  and  swiftness  of  Homer,  but  it  has  not 
his  directness  or  dignij^y.  Its  ^  inconquerable  quaintness '  and 
diffuseness  are  as  unlike  the  pure  form  and  light  and  measure 
of  Greek  work  as  possible.  But  it  is  a  distinct  poem  of  such 
power  that  it  will  excite  and  delight  all  lovers  of  poetry,  as  it 
excited  and  delighted  Keats." 

T^TilSSON    23- 

Early  Dramatic  Eep.resentation  in  England.— ''The 

drama,  as  in  Greece,  so  in  England,  began  in  religion.  In 
early  times  none  but  the  clergy  could  read  the  stories  of  their 
religion,  and  it  was  not^the  custom  to  deliver  sermons  to  the 
people.  It  was  necessary  to  instruct  uneducated  men  in  the 
history  of  the  Bible,  in  the  Christian  faith,  in  the  lives  of  the 
Saints  and  Martyrs.  Hence  the  Church  set  on  foot  miracle- 
plays  and  mysteries.  We  find  the  first  of  these  about  1110, 
when  Geoffrey,  afterwards  Abbot  of  St.  Albans,  prepared  his 
miracle  play  of  St.  Catherine  for  acting.  Such  plays  be- 
came more  frequent  from  the  time  of  Henry  II.,  and  they 
were  so  common  in  Chaucer's  time  that  they  were  the  resort  of 
idle  gossips  in  Lent.  The  wife  of  Bath  went  to  '  plays  of  mira- 
cles and  marriages.'     They  were  acted  not  only  by  the  clergy 


The  Drama — Miracle-Plays.  121 

but  by  the  laity.  About  the  year  1368,  the  town  guilds  began 
to  take  them  into  their  own  hands,  and  acted  complete  sets 
of  plays,  setting  forth  the  whole  of  Scripture  history  from 
the  Creation  to  the  Day  of  Judgment.  Each  guild  took  one 
play  in  the  set.  They  lasted  sometimes  three  days,  sometimes 
eight,  and  were  represented  on  a  great  movable  stage  on 
wheels  in  the  open  spaces  of  the  towns.  Of  these  sets  we 
have  three  remaining,  the  Towneley,  Coventry,  and  Chester 
plays,  1300  —1600.  The  first  set  has  32,  the  second  42,  and 
the  third  25  plays. 

The  Miracle-Play  was  a  representation  of  some  portion  of 
Scripture  history,  or  of  the  life  of  some  Saint  of  the  Church. 
The  Mystery  was  a  representation  of  any  portion  of  the 
N'ew  Testament  history  concerned  with  a  mysterious  subject, 
such  as  the  Incarnation,  the  Atonement,  or  the  Kesurrection. 
It  has  been  attemjDted  to  distinguish  these  more  particular- 
ly, but  they  are  mingled  together  in  England  into  one.  From 
the  towns  they  went  to  the  Court  and  to  the  houses  of  nobles. 
The  Kings  kept  players  of  them,  and  we  know  that  exhibit- 
ing Scripture  plays  at  great  festivals  was  part  of  the  domestic 
regulations  of  the  great  houses,  and  that  it  was  the  Chaplain's 
business  to  write  them.  Their  'Dumb  Show'  and  their 
'  Chorus '  leave  their  trace  in  the  regular  drama.  We  cannot 
say  that  the  modern  drama  arose  after  them,  for  it  came  in 
before  they  died  out  in  England.  They  were  still  acted  in 
Chester  in  1577,  and  in  Coventry  in  1580." 

"There  were  neither  theatres  nor  professional  actors  in  England,  in- 
deed in  Europe,  at  the  period  when  miracle-plays  first  came  in  vogue. 
The  first  performers  in  these  plays  were  clergymen ;  the  first  stages,  or 
scaffolds,  on  which  they  were  presented  were  set  up  in  churches.  Evi- 
dence that  this  was  the  case  has  been  discovered  in  such  profusion  that 
it  is  needless  to  specify  it  more  particularly  in  this  place  than  to  remark 
that  councils  and  prelates  finally  found  it  necessary  to  forbid  such  per- 
formances either  in  churches  or  by  the  clergy.  But  it  is  worthy  of 
remark  that  evidence  of  the  ecclesiastical  character  of  the  first  actors  of 
our  drama  is  preserved  in  dramatic  literature  to  this  day  in  the  Latin 


122         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

words  of  direction,  Exit  and  Exeunt.  After  the  exclusion  of  the  clergy 
from  the  religious  stage,  lay-brothers,  parish  clerks,  and  the  hangers-on 
of  the  priesthood  naturally  took  the  place  of  their  spiritual  fathers, 
under  whose  superintendence,  or  to  speak  precisely,  management,  the 
miracle-plays  were  brought  out.  Excluded  from  the  church  itself,  the 
miracle-play  found  titting  refuge  in  the  church-yard.  But  it  was  final- 
ly forbidden  within  all  hallowed  precincts,  and  was  then  presented  upon 
a  movable  scaffold,  or  pageant,  which  was  dragged  through  the  town, 
and  stopped  for  the  performance  at  certain  places  designated  by  an 
announcement  made  a  day  or  two  before. 

At  last  the  presentation  of  these  plays  fell  entirely  into  the  hands  of 
laymen,  and  handicraftsmen  became  their  actors;  the  members  of  the 
various  guilds  undertaking  respectively  certain  plays  which  they  made 
for  the  time  their  specialt3\  Thus  the  Shearmen  and  Taylors  would 
represent  one;  the  Coppers  another;  and  so  with  the  Smiths,  the  Skin- 
ners, the  Fishmongers,  and  others.  In  the  Chester  series,  Noah's 
flood  was  very  appropriately  assigned  to  the  Water-dealers  and  Draw- 
ers of  Dee.  It  is  almost  needless  to  remark  that  female  characters  were 
always  played  by  striplings  and  young  men.  Women  did  not  appear 
upon  the  English  stage  until  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century.  It 
would  seem  that  the  priests  appeared  only  as  amateurs,  and  that  their 
performances  were  gratuitous.  But  when  laymen,  or,  at  least,  when 
handicraftsmen  undertook  the  business,  they  were  paid,  as  we  know  by 
the  memorandums  of  accounts  still  existing." — U.  G.  White. 

Moral-Plays. — ''The  Morality  was  the  next  step  to  these, 
and  in  it  we  come  to  a  representation  which  is  closely  connected 
with  the  drama.  It  was  a  play  in  which  the  characters  were 
the  Vices  and  Virtues,  with  the  addition  afterwards  of  alle- 
gorical personages,  snch  as  Eiches,  Good  Deeds,  Confession, 
Death,  and  any  human  condition  or  quality  needed  for  the 
play.  These  characters  were  brought  together  in  a  rough 
story,  at  the  end  of  which  Virtue  triumphed,  or  some  moral 
principle  was  established.  The  dramatic  fool  grew  up  in  the 
Moralities  out  of  a  personage  called  '  The  Vice,'  and  the  hu- 
morous element  was  introduced  by  the  retaining  of  'The 
Devil '  from  the  Miracle  play,  and  by  making  the  Vice  torment 
him.      They  were   continually  represented,   but,   becoming 


The  Drama — Moral-Flays  and  Interludes.    123 

coarser,  were  finally  supplanted  by  the  regular  drama  about 
the  end  of  Elizabeth's  reign. 

The  Transition  between  these  and  the  regular  Drama  is  not 
hard  to  trace.  The  Virtues  and  Vices  were  dull,  because  they 
stirred  no  human  sympathy.  Historical  characters  were  there- 
fore then  introduced,  who  were  celebrated  for  a  virtue  or 
a  vice;  Brutus  represented  patriotism,  Aristides  represented 
justice;  or,  as  in  Bale's  Kynge  Johan,  historical  and  allegori- 
cal personages  were  mixed  together.  The  transition  was  hast- 
ened by  the  impulse  of  the  Reformation.  The  religious 
struggle  came  so  home  to  men's  hearts  that  they  were  not  sat- 
isfied with  subjects  drawn  from  the  past,  and  the  Morality 
was  used  to  support  the  Catholic  or  the  Protestant  side.  Real 
men  and  women  were  shown  under  the  thin  cloaks  of  its  alle- 
gorical characters;  the  vices  and  the  follies  of  the  time  were 
displayed.  It  was  the  origin  of  satiric  comedy.  The  stage 
was  becoming  a  living  power  when  this  began.  The  excite- 
ment of  the  audience  was  now  very  different  from  that  felt  in 
listening  to  Virtues  and  Vices,  and  a  demand  arose  for  a  com- 
edy and  tragedy  which  should  picture  human  life  in  all  its 
forms. 

The  Interludes  of  John  Heywood,  most  of  which  were 
written  for  Court  representation  in  Henry  VIII. 's  time,  1530, 
1540,  represent  this  further  transition.  They  differed  from  the 
Morality  in  that  most  of  the  characters  were  drawn  from  real 
life,  but  they  retained  '  the  Vice  '  as  a  personage.  The  Inter- 
lude— a  short,  humorous  piece,  to  be  acted  in  the  midst  of 
the  Morality  for  the  amusement  of  the  people — had  been  fre- 
quently used,  but  Heywood  isolated  it  from  the  Morality,  and 
made  of  it  a  kind  of  farce.  Out  of  it  we  may  say  grew  Eng- 
lish comedy." 

Bibliography.  The  Drama.— R.  G.  White's  Account  of  the  Rise  and  Progress  ot: 
Whipple's  Lit.  of  Age  of  Eliz.;  W.  Hazlitt's  Lectures  on  the  Dra.  Lit.  of  Age  of 
Eliz.;  T.  Gilliland's  Draraatic  Mirror ;B..  N.  Hudson's  Origin  and  Growth  of ;  J  Skel- 
ton's  Early  Eng.  Life  in;  H.  Ulrici's  Sketch  of  Hist,  of  Eng.  Drama;  Nat.  Quar. 
Rev.,  Dec,  1873. 


124         Literature  of  Period  lY.,  1558-1603. 


Lesson  34. 

The  Regular  Drama.—"  The  first  stage  of  the  regular  drama 
begins  with  the  first  English  comedy,  Ralph  Roister  Dots- 
ter,  written  by  Nicholas  Udall,  master  of  Eton,  known  to 
have  been  acted  before  1551,  but  not  published  till  1566.  It  is 
our  earliest  picture  of  London  manners;  the  characters  are  well 
drawn;  it  is  divided  into  regular  acts  and  scenes  and  is  made 
in  rhyme.  The  first  English  tragedy  is  Gorboduc,  written  by 
Sackville  and  !N"okto:n",  and  represented  in  1562.  The  story 
was  taken  from  British  legend,  and  the  characters  are  gravely 
sustained.  But  the  piece  was  heavy  and  too  solemn  for  the 
audience,  and  Richard  Edwards  by  mixing  tragic  and  comic 
elements  together  in  his  play,  Damon  and  Pythias,  acted 
about  1564,  succeeded  better. 

These  two  gave  the  impulse  to  a  number  of  dramas  from 
classical  and  modern  story,  which  were  acted  at  the  Universi- 
ties, Inns  of  Court,  and  the  Court  up  to  1580,  when  the  drama, 
having  gone  through  its  boyhood,  entered  on  a  vigorous  man- 
hood. More  than  fifty-two  dramas,  so  quick  was  their  pro- 
duction, are  known  to  have  been  acted  up  to  this  time.  Some 
were  translated  from  the  Greek,  as  the  Jocasta  from  Euripides, 
and  others  from  the  Italian,  as  the  Supposes  from  Ariosto,  both 
by  the  same  author,  George  GASCOiGiirE,  already  mentioned 
as  a  satirist.     These  were  acted  in  1566. 

The  Theatre. — There  was  as  yet  no  theatre.  A  patent 
was  given  in  1574  to  the  Earl  of  Leicester's  servants  to  act 
plays  in  any  town  in  England,  and  they  built  in  1576  the 
Blackfriars  Theatre.  In  the  same  year  two  others  were  set  up 
in  the  fields  about  Shoreditch — "^The  Theatre'  and  ^The  Cur- 
tain.' The  Globe  Theatre,  built  for  Shakespeare  and  his 
fellows  in  1599,  may  stand  as  a  type  of  the  rest.  In  the  form 
of  a  hexagon  outside,  it  was  circular  within,  and  open  to  the 
weather  except  above  the  stage.  The  play  began  at  three 
o'clock;  the  nobles  and  ladies  sat  in  boxes  or  in  stools  on  the 


The  Regular  Drama.  125 

stage,  the  people  stood  in  the  pit  or  yard.  The  stage  itself, 
strewn  with  rushes,  was  a  naked  room  with  a  blanket  for  a 
curtain.  Wooden  imitations  of  animals,  towers,  woods,  etc., 
were  all  the  scenery  used,  and  a  board,  stating  the  place  of  ac- 
tion, was  hung  out  from  the  top  when  the  scene  changed.  Boys 
acted  the  female  parts.  It  was  only  after  the  Restoration  that 
movable  scenery  and  actresses  were  introduced.  No  'penciFs 
aid'  supplied  the  landscape  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  The  for- 
est of  Arden,  the  castle  of  Duncan  were  *seen  only  by  the 
intellectual  eye.'" 

"  The  private  theatres  were  entirely  roofed  in,  while  in  the  others  the 
pit  was  uncovered,  and  of  course  the  stage  and  the  gallery  were  exposed 
to  the  external  air.  A  flag  was  kept  flying  from  the  staff  on  the  roof 
during  the  performance.  The  price  of  admission  to  the  pit,  or  yard, 
varied,  according  to  the  pretensions  of  the  theatre,  from  twopence,  and 
even  a  penny,  to  sixpence;  that  to  the  boxes  or  rooms,  from  a  shilling 
to  two  shillings,  and  even,  on  extraordinary  occasions,  half  a  crown. 
The  theatre  appears  to  have  been  always  artificially  lighted,  in  the  body 
of  the  house  by  cressets,  and  upon  the  stage  by  large,  rude  chandeliers. 
The  small  band  of  musicians  sat,  not  in  an  orchestra  in  front  of  the 
stage,  but,  it  would  seem,  in  a  balcony  projecting  from  the  proscenium. 
People  went  early  to  the  theatre,  and,  while  waiting  for  the  play  to  begin, 
they  read,  gamed,  smoked,  drank,  and  cracked  nuts  and  jokes  together; 
those  who  set  up  for  wits  and  gallants,  or  critics  liked  to  appear  upon  the 
stage  itself,  which  they  were  allowed  to  do  all  through  the  performance, 
lying  upon  the  rushes,  or  sitting  upon  stools,  for  which  they  paid  an 
extra  price.  Each  day's  exhibition  was  closed  by  a  prayer  for  the  Queen, 
offered  by  all  the  actors  kneeling."— i2.  G.  White. 

The  Second  Stage  of  the  Regular  Drama.—''  This  ranges 
from  1580  to  1596.  It  includes  the  work  of  Lyly,  author  of 
the  Euphues,  the  plays  of  Peele,  Greene,  Lodge,  Marlowe, 
Kyd,  Munday,  Chettle,  Nash,  and  the  earliest  works  of  Shake- 
speare. During  this  time  we  know  that  more  than  100 
different  plays  were  performed  by  four  out  of  the  eleven  com- 
panies; so  swift  and  plentiful  was  their  production.  They 
were  written  in  prose  and  in  rhyme,  and  in  blank  verse  mixed 
with  prose  and  rhyme.     Prose  and  rhyme  prevailed  before 


126         Literature  of  Period  /F.,  1558-1603. 

1587,  when  Marlowe,  in  liis  play  of  Tamiurlaine,  made  blank 
yerse  the  fashion. 

John  Lyly  illustrates  the  three  methods,  for  he  wrote 
seven  plays  in  prose,  one  in  rhyme,  and  one  (after  Tambur- 
laine)  in  blank  verse.  Some  beautiful  little  songs  scattered 
through  them  are  the  forerunners  of  the  songs  with  which 
Shakespeare  made  his  dramas  bright,  and  the  witty  'quips 
and  cranks,'  repartees,  and  similes  of  their  fantastic  prose 
dialogue  were  the  school  of  Shakespeare's  prose  dialogue. 
Peele,  Greene,  and  Marlowe  are  the  three  important 
names  of  the  period.  They  are  the  first  in  whose  hands  the 
play  of  human  passion  and  action  is  expressed  with  any  true 
dramatic  effect.  Peele  and  Greene  make  their  characters  act 
on,  and  draw  out,  one  another  in  the  several  scenes,  but  they 
have  no  power  of  making  a  plot,  or  of  working  out  their  plays, 
scene  by  scene,  to  a  natural  conclusion.  They  are,  in  one 
word,  without  art,  and  their  characters,  even  when  they  talk 
in  good  poetry,  are  neither  natural  nor  simple. 

Christopher  Marlowe,  on  the  other  hand,  rose  by  de- 
grees and  easily  into  mastery  of  his  art.  The  difference  between 
the  unequal  and  violent  action  and  thought  of  his  Doctor 
Faustus  and  the  quiet  and  orderly  progression  to  its  end  of 
the  play  of  Edward  II.  is  all  the  more  remarkable  when  we 
know  that  he  died  at  thirty.  Though  less  than  Shakespeare, 
he  was  worthy  to  precede  him.  As  he  may  be  said  to  have 
invented  and  made  the  verse  of  the  drama,  so  he  created  the 
English  tragic  drama.  His  plays  are  wrought  with  art  to 
their  end,  his  characters  are  sharply  and  strongly  outlined. 
Each  play  illustrates  one  ruling  passion  in  its  growth,  its 
power,  and  its  extremes,  Tamb'urlaine  paints  the  desire  of 
universal  empire;  the  Jeio  of  Malta  the  passions  of  greed  and 
hatred;  Doctor  Faustus  the  struggle  and  failure  of  man  to 
possess  all  knowledge  and  all  pleasure  without  toil  and  with- 
out law;  Ediuard  II.  the  misery  of  weakness  and  the  agony 
of  a  king's  ruin.      Marlowe's  verse  is  'mighty,'  his  poetry 


Poetry — Marlowe  s.  127 

strong  and  weak  alike  with  passionate  feeling,  and  expressed 
with  a  turbulent  magnificence  of  words  and  images,  the 
fault  of  which  is  a  very  great  want  of  temperance.  It  reflects 
his  life  and  the  lives  of  those  with  whom  he  lived. 

Marlowe  lived  and  died  an  irreligious,  imaginative,  tender- 
hearted, licentious  poet.  Peele  and  Greene  lived  an  even 
more  riotous  life  and  died  as  miserably,  and  they  are  examples 
of  a  crowd  of  other  dramatists  who  passed  their  lives  between 
the  theatre,  the  wine-shop,  and  the  prison.  ^Their  drama,  in 
which  we  see  the  better  side  of  the  men,  had  all  the  marks  of 
a  wild  youth.  It  was  daring,  full  of  strong  but  unequal  life, 
romantic,  sometimes  savage,  often  tender,  always  exaggerated 
in  its  treatment  "and  expression  of  the  human  passions.  If  it 
had  no  moderation,  it  had  no  tame  dulness.  If  it  was  coarse, 
it  was  powerful,  and  it  was  above  all  national.  It  was  a  time 
full  of  strange  contrasts,  a  time  of  fiery  action  and  of  senti- 
mental contemplation;  a  time  of  fancy  and  chivalry,  indeli- 
cacy and  buffoonery;  of  great  national  adventure  and  private 
brawls;  of  literary  quiet  and  polemic  thought;  of  faith  and 
infidelity — and  the  whole  of  it  is  painted  with  truth,  but  with 
too  glaring  colors,  in  the  drama  of  these  men." 

From  Marlowe's  Edward  IL'^ 
Enter  Matrevis,  Gurney,  and  soldiers  with  King  Edward. 

K.  Edw.  Friends,  whither  must  unhappy  Edward  go? 
Will  hateful  Mortimer  appoint  no  rest? 
Must  I  be  vex^d  like  the  nightly  bird, 
Whose  sight  is  loathsome  to  all  winged  fowls? 
When  will  the  fury  of  his  mind  assuage? 
When  will  his  heart  be  satisfied  with  blood? 
If  mine  will  serve,  unbowel  straight  this  breast, 
And  give  my  heart  to  Isabel  and  him: 
It  is  the  chiefest  mark  they  level  at. 

*  Ed.  n.,  son  of  Ed.  I.  and  father  of  Ed  III.,  was  King  of  England,  1307-27.  His 
character  was  weak,  and  his  reign  disastrous.  He  was  deposed  by  his  nobles.  This 
extract  from  the  play  treats  of  his  imprisonment  in  the  dungeon  of  Kenil- 
worth,  his  execution,  and  the  feelings  and  doings  of  Ed.  III.  concerning  his  father's 
treatment. 


128         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 


Gur.  Not  so,  my  liege,  the  queen  hath  given  this  charge — 
To  keep  your  grace  in  safety : 
Your  passions  make  your  dolours  to  increase. 

K.  Edw.  This  usage  makes  my  misery  increase. 
But  can  my  air  of  life  continue  long, 
When  all  my  senses  are  annoyed  with  stench? 
"Within  a  dungeon  England's  king  is  kept, 
Where  I  am  starv'd  for  want  of  sustenance. 
My  daily  diet  is  heart-breaking  sobs,  * 

That  almost  rend  the  closet  of  ray  heart: 
Thus  lives  old  Edward  not  reliev'd  by  any, 
And  so  must  die,  though  pitied  by  many. 
Oh,  water,  gentle  friends,  to  cool  my  thirst, 
And  clear  my  body  from  foul  excrements ! 

Mat.  Why  strive  you  thus?  your  labor  is  in  vain. 

K.  Edw.  The  wren  may  strive  against  the  lion's  strength. 
But  all  in  vain :  so  vainly  do  I  strive 
To  seek  for  mercy  at  a  tyrant's  hand. 
Immortal  powers,  that  know  the  painful  cares 
That  wait  upon  my  poor,  distressed  soul. 
Oh,  level  all  your  looks  upon  these  dariug  men 
That  wrong  their  liege  and  sovereign,  England's  king! 
O  Gaveston,  it  is  for  thee  that  I  am  wrong'd ! 
For  me  both  thou  and  both  the  Spensers  died; 
And  for  your  sakes  a  thousand  wrongs  I'll  take. 
The  Spensers'  ghosts,  wherever  they  remain, 
Wish  well  to  mine;  then,  tiish,  for  them  I'll  die. 

Mat.  'Twixt  theirs  and  yours  shall  be  no  enmity. 
Come,  come,  away!    Now  put  the  torches  out, 
We'll  enter  in  by  darkness  to  Killingworth. 

Enter  the  younger  Mortimer  and  Lightborn. 

T.  Mort.  Art  thou  so  resolute  as  thou  wast? 
Light.  What  else,  my  lord?  and  far  more  resolute. 
T.  Mort.  And  hast  thou  cast  how  to  accomplish  it? 
Light.  Ay,  ay;  and  none  shall  know  which  way  he  died. 
T.  Mort.  But  at  his  looks,  Lightborn,  thou  wilt  relent. 
Light.  Relent!  ha,  ha!  I  use  much  to  relent. 
Y.  Mort.  Well,  do  it  bravely,  and  be  secret. 
Light.  You  shall  not  need  to  give  instructions; 
'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  kill'd  a  man : 


Poetry — Marlowe's.  129 

I  learn 'd  in  Naples  how  to  poison  flowers; 

To  strangle  witli  a  lawn  thrust  thro'  the  throat; 

To  pierce  the  wiud-pipe  with  a  needle's  point; 

Or,  whilst  one  is  asleep,  to  take  a  quill 

And  blow  a  little  powder  in  his  ears; 

Or  open  his  mouth,  and  pour  quick-silver  down. 

But  yet  I  have  a  braver  way  than  these. 


[Enters  Killingworth  prison. 

K.  Edw.  Who's  there?  what  light  is  that?    Wherefore 
com'st  thou? 

Light.  To  comfort  you,  and  bring  you  joyful  news. 

K.  Edw.  Small  comfort  finds  poor  Edward  in  thy  looks. 
Villain,  I  know  thou  com'st  to  murder  me. 

Light.  To  murder  you,  my  most  gracious  lord! 
Far  is  it  from  my  heart  to  do  you  harm. 
The  queen  sent  me  to  see  how  you  were  us'd, 
For  she  relents  at  this  your  misery : 
And  what  eyes  can  refrain  from  shedding  tears, 
-    To  see  a  king  in  this  most  piteous  state? 

K.  Edw.  Weep'st  thou  already?  list  awhile  to  me, 
And  then  thy  heart,  were  it  as  Guruey's  is. 
Or  as  Matrevis',  hewn  from  the  Caucasus, 
Yet  will  it  melt  ere  I  have  done  my  tale. 
This  dungeon  where  they  keep  me  is  the  sink 
Wherein  the  filih  of  all  the  castle  falls. 

Light.  O  villains! 

K.  Edw.  And  there,  in  mire  and  puddle,  have  I  stood 
,     This  ten  days'  space;  and,  lest  that  I  should  sleep, 
One  plays  continually  upon  a  drum. 
They  give  me  bread  and  water,  being  a  king; 
So  that,  for  want  of  sleep  and  sustenance. 
My  mind's  distemper'd,  and  my  body's  numb'd, 
And  whether  I  have  limbs  or  no  I  know  not. 
Oh,  would  my  blood  dropp'd  out  from  every  vein. 
As  doth  this  water  from  my  tatter'd  robes !  / 

Tell  Isabel,  the  queen,  I  look'd  not  thus, 
When  for  her  sake  I  ran  at  tilt  in  France, 
And  there  unhors'd  the  Duke  of  Cieremont. 

Light.  Oh,  speak  no  more,  my  lord!  this  breaks  my  heart. 
Lie  on  this  bed,  and  rest  yourself  awhile. 


[Exit. 


130         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

K  Edw.  These  looks  of  thine  can  harbor  naught  but  death; 
I  see  my  tragedy  written  in  thy  brows. 
Yet  stay  awhile;  forbear  thy  bloody  hand, 
And  let  me  see  the  stroke  before  it  comes, 
That  even  then  when  I  shall  lose  my  life, 
My  mind  may  be  more  steadfast  on  my  God. 

Light.  What  means  your  highness  to  mistrust  me  thus? 

K.  Edw.  What  mean'st  thou  to  dissemble  with  me  thus? 

Light.  These  hands  were  never  stain'd  with  innocent  blood. 
Nor  shall  they  now  be  tainted  with  a  king's. 

K.  Edw.  Forgive  my  thought  for  having  such  a  thought. 
One  jewel  have  I  left;  receive  thou  this. 

[Giving  jewel. 
Still  fear  I,  and  I  know  not  what's  the  cause, 
But  every  joint  shakes  as  I  give  it  thee. 
Oh,  if  thou  harbor'st  murder  in  thy  heart, 
Let  this  gift  change  thy  mind,  and  save  thy  soul! 
Know  that  I  am  a  king :  Oh,  at  that  name 
I  feel  a  hell  of  grief!    Where  is  ray  crown? 
Gone,  gone!  and  do  I  still  remain  alive? 

Light.  You're  overwatch'd,  my  lord;  lie  down  and  rest. 

K.  Edw.  But  that  grief  keeps  me  waking,  I  should  sleep; 
For  not  these  ten  days  have  these  eye-lids  clos'd. 
Now,  as  I  speak,  they  fall;  and  yet  with  fear 
Open  again.     Oh,  wherefore  sitt'st  thou  here? 

Light.  If  you  mistrust  me,  I'll  be  gone,  my  lord. 

K.  Edw.  No,  no;  for,  if  thou  mean'st  to  murder  me, 
Thou  wilt  return  again ;  and  therefore  stay. 

[Sleeps. 

Light.  He  sleeps. 

K.  Edw.  [Waking]  Oh,  let  me  not  die  yet!  Oh,  stay  awhile! 

Light.  How  now,  my  lord! 

K.  Edw.  Something  still  buzzelh  in  mine  ears, 
And  tells  me,  if  I  sleep,  I  never  wake: 
This  fear  is  that  which  makes  me  tremble  thus ; 
And  therefore  tell  me,  wherefore  art  thou  come? 

Light.  To  rid  thee  of  thy  life. — Matrevis,  come! 

Enter  Matrevis  and  Gurney. 

K.  Edw.  I  am  too  weak  and  feeble  to  resist. — 
Assist  me,  sweet  God,  and  receive  my  soull 
Light.  Run  for  the  table. 


Poetry — Marlowe's.  131 

K.  Edw.  Oh,  spare  me,  or  despatch  me  in  a  trice  I 

Light.  So,  lay  the  table  down,  and  stamp  on  it. 
But  not  too  bard,  lest  that  you  bruise  his  body. 

Mat.  I  fear  me  that  this  cry  will  raise  the  town. 
And  therefore  let  us  take  horse  and  away. 

Light.  Tell  me,  sirs,  was  it  not  bravely  done? 

Gur.  Excellent  well,  take  this  for  thy  reward. 

[Stabs  Lightbom,  who  dies. 

Enter  King  Edw.  III.,  Q.  Isab.,  lords,  and  attendants. 

First  Lord.  Fear  not,  my  lord,  know  that  you  are  a  king. 

K.  Edw.  IIL  Villain! 

T.  Mort.  How  now,  my  lord! 

K.  Edw.  III.  Think  not  that  I  am  frighted  with  thy  words! 
My  father's  murdered  through  thy  treachery; 
And  thou  shaU  die,  and  on  his  mournful  hearse 
Thy  hateful  and  accursed  head  shall  lie, 
To  witness  to  the  world  that  by  thy  means 
His  kingly  body  was  too  soon  iuterr'd. 

Q.  Isab.  Weep  not,  sweet  son! 

K.  Edw.  III.  Forbid  not  me  to  weep,  he  was  my  father; 
And  had  you  lov'd  him  half  so  well  as  I, 
You  could  not  bear  his  death  thus  patiently: 
But  you,  I  fear,  conspir'd  with  Mortimer. 
Ay,  Mortimer,  thou  kuow'st  that  he  is  slain ; 
And  so  Shalt  thou  be  too.     Why  stays  he  here? 
Bring  him  unto  a  hurdle,  drag  h^  forth. 
Hang  him,  I  say,  and  set  his  quarters  up ; 
But  bring  his  head  back  presently  to  me. 

Q.  Isab.  For  my  sake,  sweet  son,  pity  Mortimer! 

T.  Mort.  Madam,  entreat  not,  I  will  rather  die 
Than  sue  for  life  unto  a  paltry  boy. 

K.  Edic.  Ill  Hence  with  the  traitor!  with  the  murderer! 

F.  Mort.  Base  Fortune,  now  I  see  that  in  thy  wheel 
There  is  a  point,  to  which  when  men  aspire. 
They  tumble  headlong  down:  that  point  I  touch'd. 
And,  seeing  there  was  no  place  to  mount  up  higher, 
Why  should  I  grieve  at  my  declining  fall? — 
Farewell,  fair  queen ;  weep  not  for  Mortimer, 
That  scorns  the  world,  and,  as  a  traveller, 
Goes  to  discover  countries  yet  unknown. 


132         Literature  of  Period  IV,,  1558-1603. 


• 

William  Shakespeare.— '^  The  greatest  dramatist  of  the 
world  now  took  up  the  work  of  Marlowe,  and  in  twenty-eight 
years  made  the  drama  represent  the  whole  of  human  life. 
He  was  born,  it  is  thought,  April  23,  1564,  the  son  of  a  com- 
fortable burgess  of  Stratford-on-Avon.  AVhile  he  was  still 
young,  his  father  fell  into  poverty,  and  an  interrupted  educa- 
tion left  the  son  an  inferior  scholar.  He  had  ^  small  Latin 
and  less  Greek.'  But  by  dint  of  genius  and  by  living  in  a 
society  in  which  all  sorts  of  information  were  attainable,  he 
became  an  accomplished  man.  The  story  told  of  his  deer- 
stealing  in  Charlecote  woods  is  without  proof,  but  it  is  likely 
that  his  youth  was  wild  and  passionate.  At  nineteen,  he 
married  Ann  Hathaway,  seven  years  older  than  himself,  and 
was  probably  unhappy  with  her.  For  this  reason  or  from 
poverty  or  from  the  driving  of  the  genius  that  led  him  to  the 
stage,  he  left  Stratford  about  1586-7,  and  went  to  London  at 
the  age  of  twenty-two,  and,  falling  in  with  Marlowe,  Greene 
and  the  rest,  became  an  actor  and  a  play-wright,  and  may 
have  lived  their  unrestrained  and  riotous  life  for  some  years. 

His  First  Period. — It  i|i  probable  that  before  leaving  Strat- 
ford he  had  sketched  a  part  at  least  of  his  Venus  andAdo7iis.  It 
is  full  of  the  country  sights  and  sounds,  of  the  ways  of  birds  and 
animals,  such  as  he  saw  when  wandering  in  Charlecote  woods. 
Its  rich  and  overladen  poetry  and  its  warm  coloring  made  him, 
when  it  was  published,  1591-3,  at  once  the  favorite  of  men 
like  Lord  Southampton,  and  lifted  him  into  fame.  But  before 
that  date  he  had  done  work  for  the  stage  by  touching  up  old 
plays  and  writing  new  ones.  We  seem  to  trace  his  '  prentice 
hand '  inmany  dramas  of  the  time,  but  the  first  he  is  usually 
thought  to  have  retouched  is  Titus  A7idronicus,  and  some 
time  after,  the  First  Part  of  Henry  VI. 

Lovers  Lalor^s  Lost,  the  first  of  his  original  plays,  in  which 


Poetry — Shakespeare.  133 

he  quizzed  and  excelled  the  Euphuists  in  wit,  was  followed 
by  the  rapid  farce  of  the  Comedy  of  Errors.  Out  of  these 
frolics  of  intellect  and  action  he  passed  into  pure  poetry  in  the 
Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream,  and  mingled  into  fantastic  beauty 
the  classic  legend,  the  mediasval  fairyland,  and  the  clownish 
life  of  the  English  mechanic.  Italian  story  then  laid  its  charm 
upon  him,  and  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  preceded  the 
southern  glow  of  passion  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  in  which  he 
first  reached  tragic  power.  They  complete,  with  Love's  Labors 
Won,  afterwards  recast  as  AlVs  Well  That  Ends  Well,  the  love 
plays  of  his  early  period.  We  may,  perhaps,  add  to  them  the 
second  act  of  an  older  play,  Edivard  III.  We  should  certainly 
read  along  with  them,  as  belonging  to  the  same  passionate 
time,  his  Rape  of  Lucrece,  a  poem  finally  printed  in  1594, 
one  year  later  than  the  Venus  arid  Adonis. 

The  same  poetic  succession  we  have  traced  in  the  poets  is 
now  found  in  Shakespeare.  The  patriotic  feeling  of  England, 
also  represented  in  Marlowe  and  Peele,  now  seized  on  him, 
and  he  turned  from  love  to  begin  his  great  series  of  historical 
plays  with  Richard  11. ,  1593-4.  Richard  III.  followed 
quickly.  To  introduce  it  and  to  complete  the  subject,  he  re- 
cast the  Second  and  Third  Parts  of  Henry  VI.  (written  by 
some  unknown  authors),  and  ended  his  first  period  with  King 
John  ;  five  plays  in  a  little  more  than  two  years. 

His  Second  Period,  1596— 1602.— In  the  Merchant  of 
Venice  Shakespeare  reached  entire  mastery  over  his  art.  A 
mingled  woof  of  tragic  and  comic  threads  is  brought  to  its 
highest  point  of  color  when  Portia  and  Shylock  meet  in  court. 
Pure  comedy  followed  in  his  retouch  of  the  old  Taming  of 
the  Shrew,  and  all  the  wit  of  the  world,  mixed  with  noble 
history,  met  next  in  the  three  comedies  of  Falstaff,  the  First 
and  Second  Parts  of  Henry  IV.  and  the  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor.  The  historical  plays  were  then  closed  with  Henry 
v.;  a  splendid  dramatic  song  to  the  glory  of  England. 
The  Globe  theatre,  in  which  he  was  one  of  the  proprietors, 


134         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

was  built  in  1599.  In  the  comedies  he  wrote  for  it,  Shake- 
speare turned  to  write  of  love  again,  not  to  touch  its  deeper 
passion  as  before  but  to  play  with  it  in  all  its  lighter  phases. 
The  flashing  dialogue  of  Much  Ado  About  Notlmig  was  followed 
by  the  far-off  forest  world  of  As  You  Like  It,  where  Hhe 
time  fleets  carelessly,'  and  Eosalind's  character  is  the  play. 
Amid  all  its  gracious  lightness  steals  in  a  new  element,  and  the 
melancholy  of  Jaques  is  the  first  touch  we  have  of  the  older 
Shakespeare  who  had  '  gained  his  experience,  and  whose  ex- 
perience had  made  him  sad.'  As  yet  it  was  but  a  touch; 
Ttvelfth  Night  shows  no  trace  of  it,  though  the  play  that  fol- 
lowed, AlVs  Well  That  Ends  Well,  again  strikes  a  sadder  note. 
We  find  this  sadness  fully  grown  in  the  later  sonnets,  which 
are  said  to  have  been  finished  about  1602.  They  were  pub- 
lished in  1609. 

Shakespeare's  life  changed  now,  and  his  mind  changed  with 
it.  He  had  grown  wealthy  during  this  period  and  famous,  and 
was  loved  by  society.  He  was  the  friend  of  the  Earls  of  South- 
ampton and  Essex,  and  of  William  Herbert,  Lord  Pembroke. 
The  Queen  patronized  him;  all  the  best  literary  society  was 
his  own.  He  had  rescued  his  father  from  poverty,  bought  the 
best  house  in  Stratford  and  much  land,  and  was  a  man  of 
wealth  and  comfort.  Suddenly  jdl  his  life  seems  to  have 
grown  dark.  His  best  friends  fell  into  ruin,  Essex  perished 
on  the  scaffold,  Southampton  went  to  the  Tower,  Pembroke 
was  banished  from  the  Court;  he  may  himself,  as  some  have 
thought,  have  been  concerned  in  the  rising  of  Essex.  Added 
to  this,  we  may  conjecture,  from  the  imaginative  pageantry  of 
the  sonnets,  that  he  had  unwisely  loved,  and  been  betrayed  in 
his  love  by  a  dear  friend.  Disgust  of  his  profession  as  an 
actor  and  public  and  private  ill  weighed  heavily  on  him,  and 
in  darkness  of  spirit,  though  still  clinging  to  the  business  of 
the  theatre,  he  passed  from  comedy  to  write  of  the  sterner  side 
of  the  world,  to  tell  the  tragedy  of  mankind. 

His  Third  Period,  1602—1608,  begins  with  the  last  days 


Poetry — ShaJcespeare.  135 

of  Queen  Elizabeth.  It  contains  all  the  great  tragedies,  and 
opens  with  the  fate  of  Hamlet,  who  felt,  like  the  poet  himself, 
that  *the  time  was  out  of  joint.'  Hamlet,  the  dreamer,  may 
well  represent  Shakespeare  as  he  stood  aside  from  the  crash 
that  overwhelmed  his  friends,  and  thought  on  the  changing 
world.  The  tragi-comedy  of  Measure  for  Measure  was  next 
written,  and  is  tragic  in  thought  throughout.  Julius  CcBsar, 
Othello,  Macbeth,  Lear,  Troilus  and  Cressida  (finished  from 
an  incomplete  work  of  his  youth),  Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
Coriolanus,  Timon  (only  in  part  his  own)  were  all  written  in 
these  five  years.  The  darker  sins  of  men,  the  unpitying  fate 
which  slowly  gathers  round  and  falls  on  men,  the  avenging 
wrath  of  conscience,  the  cruelty  and  punishment  of  weakness, 
the  treachery,  lust,  jealousy,  ingratitude,  madness  of  men,  the 
follies  of  the  great,  and  the  fickleness  of  the  mob  are  all,  with 
\  thousand  other  varying  moods  and  passions,  painted,  and 
?elt  as  his  own  while  he  painted  them,  during  this  stern  time. 
His  Fourth  Period,  1608— 1613.— As  Shakespeare  wrote 
^f  these  things,  he  passed  out  of  them,  and  his  last  days  are 
:full  of  the  gentle  and  loving  calm  of  one  who  has  known  sin 
and  sorrow  and  fate  but  has  risen  above  them  into  peaceful 
Victory.  Like  his  great  contemporary.  Bacon,  he  left  the 
world  and  his  own  evil  time  behind  him,  and  with  the  same 
quiet  dignity  sought  the  innocence  and  stillness  of  country  life. 
The  country  breathes  through  all  the  dramas  of  this  time. 
The  flowers  Perdita  gathers  in  Winter's  Tale  and  the  frolic  of 
the  sheep-shearing  he  may  have  seen  in  the  Stratford  mead- 
ows; the  song  of  Fidele  in  Cymbeline  is  written  by  one  who 
already  feared  no  more  the  frown  of  the  great  nor  slander  nor 
censure  rash,  and  was  looking  forward  to  the  time  when  men 
should  say  of  him — 

*  Quiet  consummation  have; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave!  * 

Shakespeare  probably  left  London  in  1609,  and  lived  in  the 
house  he  had  bought  at  Stratford-on-Avon.     He  was  recon- 


136         Literature  of  Period  YL,  1558-1603. 

ciled,  it  is  said,  to  his  wife,  and  the  plays  he  writes  speak  of 
domestic  peace  and  forgiveness.  The  story  of  Marina,  which 
he  left  unfinished,  and  which  two  later  writers  expanded  into 
the  play  of  Pericles,  is  the  first  of  his  closing  series  of  dramas. 
The  Tn^o  Nolle  Kinsmen  of  Fletcher,  a  great  part  of  which  is 
now,  on  doubtful  grounds,  I  think,  attributed  to  Shakespeare, 
and  in  which  the  poet  sought  the  inspiration  of  Chaucer, 
would  belong  to  this  period.  Cymheline,  Wintefs  Tale,  and 
the  Tempest  bring  his  history  up  to  1612,  and  in  the  next 
year  he  closed  his  poetic  life  by  writing,  with  Fletcher,  Henry 
VIII.  For  three  years  he  kept  silence,  and  then,  on  the  23d 
of  April,  1616,  the  day  he  reached  the  age  of  fifty-two  as  is 
supposed,  he  died. 

His  Work. — We  can  only  guess  witji  regard  to  Shake- 
speare's life;  we  can  only  guess  with  regard  to  his  character. 
It  has  been  tried  to  find  out  what  he  was  from  his  sonnets 
and  from  his  plays,  but  every  attempt  seems  to  be  a  failure. 
"We  cannot  lay  our  hand  on  anything  and  say  for  certain  that 
it  was  spoken  by  Shakespeare  out  of  his  own  character.  The 
most  personal  thing  in  all  his  writings  is  one  that  has  scarcely 
been  noticed.  It  is  the  Epilogue  to  the  Tempest;  and  if  it 
be,  as  is  most  probable,  the  last  thing  he  ever  wrote,  then  its 
cry  for  forgiveness,  its  tale  of  inward  sorrow,  only  to  be 
relieved  by  prayer,  give  us  some  dim  insight  into  how  the 
silence  of  those  three  years  was  passed;  while  its  declaration 
of  his  aim  in  writing,  *  which  was  to  please,' — the  true  defini- 
tion of  an  artist's  aim — should  make  us  very  cautious  in  our 
efforts  to  define  his  character  from  his  works.  Shakespeare 
made  men  and  women  whose  dramatic  action  on  each  other, 
and  towards  a  catastrophe,  was  intended  to  please  the  public, 
not  to  reveal  himself. 

No  commentary  on  his  writings,  no  guesses  about  his  life 
or  character  are  worth  much  which  do  not  rest  on  this  canon 
as  their  foundation — What  he  did,  thought,  learned,  and  felt, 
he  did,  thought,  learned,  and  felt  as  an  artist.     And  he  was 


Poetry — Shakespeare.  137 

never  less  the  artist,  through  all  the  changes  of  the  time. 
Fully  influenced,  as  we  see  in  Hamlet  he  was,  by  the  graver 
and  more  j^hilosophic  cast  of  thought  of  the  later  time  of 
Elizabeth;  passing  on  into  the  reign  of  James  I.,  when  pedan- 
try took  the  place  of  gayety,  and  sensual  the  place  of  imagi- 
native love  in  the  drama,  and  artificial  art  the  place  of  that 
art  which  itself  is  nature;  he  preserves  to  the  last  the  natu- 
ral passion,  the  simple  tenderness,  the  sweetness,  grace,  and 
fire  of  the  youthful  Elizabethan  poetry.  The  Winter'' s  Tale 
is  as  lovely  a  love  story  as  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  Tempest  is 
more  instinct  with  imagination  than  the  Midsummer  -  NigM  s 
Dream,  and  as  great  in  fancy,  and  yet  there  are  fully  twenty 
years  between  them.  The  only  change  is  in  the  increase  of 
power  and  in  a  closer  and  graver  grasp  of  human  nature. 
Around  him  the  whole  tone  and  manner  of  the  drama  altered 
for  the  worse  as  his  life  went  on,  but  his  work  grew  to  the 
close  in  strength  and  beauty." 

Note.—"  The  dates  and  arrangement  of  Shakespeare's  plays  given  above  are  only- 
tentative.  They  are  so  placed  by  the  conjectures  of  the  latest  criticism,  and  the 
conjectures  wait  for  proof.    Julius  Ccesar,  e.g.,  is  now  dated  1601," 

Bibliography.  Shakespeare's  Works.— Clarendon  Press  Ed.;  Mieklejohn's  Ed. ; 
J.  P.  Ck)llier's  Ed. ;  Leopold  Shakespeare  Ed.,  with  an  Int.  by  F.  J.  Fumivall; 
Knight's  Ed.;  H.  H.  Furness's  New  Variorum  Ed.;  H.  N.  Hudson's  Ed.;  Rolfe"s  Ed.; 
R.  G.  White's  Ed. ;  G.  C.  Verplanck's  Ed  ;  Dyce's  Ed. ;  and  others. 

Biographies  and  Critical  Studies  in.— H.  N.  Hudson's  Lectures  on  Shak.  and 
his  Life,  Art,  and  Characters  of;  S.  T.  Coleridge's  Notes  and  Lectures  upon  Shak.; 
Dowden's  Critical  Study  of  Mind  and  Art  of  Shak. ;  T.  Carlyle's  Hero  as  Poet  ;  R 
W.  Emerson's  Shakespeare,  or  the  Poet,  in  Rep.  Men;  Gervinus'  Shak.  Commen- 
taries ;  H.  Giles'  Human  Life  in  Shak.  ;  R.  G.  White's  Memoirs  of,  with  an  Essay 
toward  the  Expression  of  the  Genius  of  ;  J.  Weiss'  Wit,  Humor,  and  Shak.;  J.  R. 
Lowell's  Among  my  Books ;  Whipple's  Lit.  of  Age  of  Eliz.;  C.  &  M.  C.  Clarke's 
The  Shak.  Key;  E.  A.  Abbott's  Shak.  Grammar ;  H.  Reed's  Lectures  on  Eng.  Hist, 
and  Tragic  Po.  as  illustrated  by  Shak. ;  Minto's  Characteristics  of  Eng.  Poets. 

Reading.— It  is  impossible  to  quote  from  Shakespeare  as  much  as  is  needed,  and 
so  we  quote  nothing.  His  plays,  admirably  annotated,  are  published  separately,  and 
can  easily  be  procured.  We  suggest  that  a  Comedy,  As  You  Like  It,  or  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing,  for  instance  ;  a  Tragedy,  Macbeth.  King  Lear,  Othello,  or  Hamlet  ,* 
and  a  Historical  play,  Hen.  IV.,  Part  11.,  or  Hen.  V..  be  read.  If  possible, 
these  should  be  read  (1)  till  the  pupils  can  give  the  plot  of  the  play,  (2)  till  they 
fairly  understand  the  characters,  and  can  point  out  the  influence  of  each  upon  the 
others  and  his  agency  in  the  development  of  the  play,  (3)  till  they  can  quote  the 
notable  passages  and  tell  who  uttered  them,  and  (4)  till  they  have  acquired  some 
mastery  of  Shakespeare's  language,  imagery,  and  thought. 


138         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 


IjESSOisr  26. 

Ben  Jonson.— '*  The  Decay  of  the  Drama  begins  while 
Shakespeare  is  alive.  At  first  one  can  scarcely  call  it  decay, 
it  was  so  magnificent.  For  it  began  with  ^  rare  Ben"  Joi^son^,' 
who  was  born  in  1573.  His  first  play,  in  its  very  title,  Every 
Man  171  Ms  Humor,  1596-98,  enables  us  to  say  in  what  the 
first  step  of  this  decay  consisted. 

The  drama  in  Shakespeare's  hands  had  been  the  painting  of 
the  whole  of  human  nature,  the  painting  of  characters  as  they 
were  built  up  by  their  natural  bent,  and  by  the  play  of  cir- 
cumstance upon  them.  The  drama  in  Ben  Jonson's  hands 
was  the  painting  of  that  particular  human  nature  which  he 
saw  in  his  own  age;  and  his  characters  are  not  men  and  women 
as  they  are,  but  as  they  may  become  when  they  are  mastered 
by  a  special  bias  of  the  mind,  or  humor.  '  The  Manners, 
now  called  Humors,  feed  the  Stage,'  says  Jonson  himself. 
Every  Man  in  Ms  Humor  was  followed  by  Every  Man  out  of 
Ms  Humor,  and  by  CyntMa^s  Revels,  written  to  satirize  the 
courtiers.  The  fierce  satire  of  these  plays  brought  the  town 
down  upon  him,  and  he  replied  to  their  ^  noise '  in  the  Poet- 
aster, in  which  Dekker  and  Marston  were  satirized.  Dekker 
answered  with  the  Satiro-Mastix,  a  bitter  parody  on  the  Poet- 
aster, in  which  he  did  not  spare  Jonson's  bodily  defects.  The 
staring  Leviathan,  as  he  calls  Jonson,  is  not  a  very  untrue 
description.  Silent  then  for  two  years,  he  reappeared  with 
the  tragedy  of  Sejanus,  and  shortly  after  produced  three 
splendid  comedies  in  James  I.  's  reign,  Volpone  the  Fox,  The 
8ilent  Woman,  and  The  Alchemist,  1605-9-10. 

The  first  is  the  finest  thing  he  ever  did,  as  great  in  power 
as  it  is  in  the  interest  and  skill  of  its  plot;  the  second  is  chiefly 
valuable  as  a  picture  of  English  life  in  high  society;  the  third 
is  full  to  weariness  of  Jonson's  obscure  learning,  but  its  char- 
acter of  Sir  Epicure  Mammon  redeems  it.     In  1611  his  Cati- 


Poetry — Ben  Jonsons,  139 

line  appeared,  and  eight  years  after  he  was  made  Poet  Lau- 
reate. Soon  he  became  poor  and  palsy  stricken,  but  his  genius 
did  not  decay.  The  most  graceful  and  tender  thing  he  ever 
wrote  was  written  in  his  old  age.  His  pastoral  drama,  TJie 
Sad  Shepherd,  proves  that,  like  Shakespeare,  Jonson  grew 
kinder  and  gentler  as  he  grew  near  to  death,  and  death  took 
him  in  1637.  He  was  a  great  man.  The  power  of  the  young 
Elizabethan  age  belonged  to  him;  and  he  stands  far  below, 
but  still  worthily  by,  Shakespeare,  '  a  robust,  surly,  and  ob- 
serving dramatist.' " 

From  Jonson's  Sejanus* 
Enter  Arruntius. 
Arr.  Still  dost  thou  suffer,  heaven!  will  no  flame, 
No  heat  of  sin  make  thy  just  wrath  to  boil 
In  thy  distemper'd  bosom,  and  o'erflow 
The  pitchy  blazes  of  impiety 

Kmdled  beneath  tliy  throne?    Still  canst  thou  sleep 
Patient,  while  vice  doth  make  an  antic  face 
At  thy  dread  power,  and  blow  dust  and  smoke 
Into  thy  nostrils?    Jove!  will  nothing  wake  thee? 
Must  vile  Sejanus  pull  thee  by  the  beard 
Ere  thou  wilt  open  thy  black-lidded  eye. 
And  look  him  dead?    Well,  snore  on,  dreaming  gods, 
And  let  this  last  of  that  proud  giant-race 
Heave  mountain  upon  mountain,  'gainst  your  state — 
Be  good  unto  me,  Fortune  and  you  Powers, 
Whom  I,  expostulating,  have  profaned. 
I  see  what's  equal  with  a  prodigy, 
A  great,  a  noble  Roman,  and  an  honest. 
Live  an  old  man ! — 


*  Sejanxzs  was  the  prime  minister  of  Tiberius  Claudius  Nero  Caesar,  Emperor  of 
Rome,  14-37  A.D.  For  eight  years  Sejanus  possessed  an  undivided  influence  over 
his  wicked  master,  and  procured  the  death  or  banishment  of  almost  every  one  op- 
posed to  his  own  ambition— the  attainment  of  imperial  power.  The  Senate  were 
servile  to  him,  and  the  people  gave  him  honors  second  only  to  those  accorded  to 
the  Emperor.  Tiberius  at  length  became  aware  of  the  plans  of  Sejanus,  and  had 
him  arrested,  condemned,  and  put  to  an  ignominious  death. 

This  extract  describes  his  eminence  and  the  feelings  of  patriotic  Romans  toward 
him  just  before  his  fall. 


140         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

Enter  Lepidus. 

O  Marcus  Lepirlus, 
When  is  our  turn  to  bleed?     Thyself  and  I, 
Without  our  boast,  are  almost  all  tlie  few 
Left  to  be  honest  in  these  impious  times. 

Lep.  What  we  are  left  to  be  we  will  be,  Lucius, 
Though  tyrauuy  did  stare  as  wide  as  death 
To  fright  us  from  it. 

Arr.  'T  hath  so  on  Sabinus. 

Lep.  I  saw  him  now  drawn  from  the  Gemonies,* 
And,  what  increased  the  direness  of  the  fact. 
His  faithful  dog,  upbraiding  all  us  Romans, 
Never  forsook  the  corps^,  but  seeing  it  thrown 
Into  the  stream,  leap'd  in,  and  drown'd  with  it. 

Arr.  O  act  to  be  envied  him  of  us  men! 
We  are  the  next  the  hook  lays  hold  on,  Marcus. 
What  are  thy  arts,  good  patriot,  teach  them  me, 
That  have  preserved  thy  hairs  to  this  white  dye. 
And  kept  so  reverend  and  so  dear  a  head 
Safe  on  his  3  comely  shoulders? 

Lep.  Arts,  Arruntius! 
Kone  but  the  plain  and  passive  fortitude 
To  suffer  and  be  silent;  never  stretch 
These  arms  against  the  torrent;  live  at  home 
With  my  own  thoughts,  and  innocence  about  me, 
Not  tempting  the  wolves'  jaws:  these  are  my  arts. 

Arr.  I  would  begin  to  study  'em  if  I  thought 
They  would  secure  me.     May  I  pray  to  Jove 
In  secret  and  be  safe?  Ay,  or  aloud. 
With  open  wishes,  so  I  do  not  mention 
Tiberius  or  Sejanus?     Yes,  I  must 
If  I  speak  out.     'Tis  hard  that.     May  I  think 
And  not  be  rack'd?     What  danger  is't  to  dream, 
Talk  in  one's  sleep,  or  cough?    Who  knows  the  law? 
May  I  shake  my  head  without  a  comment?  say 
It  rains  or  it  holds  up,  and  not  be  thrown 
Upon  the  Gemonies?     These  now  are  things 
Whereon  men's  fortune,  yea,  their  faith  depends. 


1  Steps  near  the  Romau  prison,  down  which  bodies  were  thrown, 
a  Corpse.  s  Its. 


Poetry — Ben  Jonson^s.  141 

Nothing  hath  privilege  'gainst  the  violent  ear. 
No  place,  no  day,  no  hour,  we  see,  is  free,        , 
Not  our  religious  and  most  sacred  times, 
From  some  one  kind  of  cruelty;  all  matter, 
Nay,  all  occasion  pleaseth.     Madmen's  rage, 
The  idleness  of  drunkards,  women's  nothing, 
Jester's  simplicity — all,  all  is  good 
That  can  be  catcht  at.     Nor  is  now  the  event 
Of  any  person,  or  for  any  crime. 
To  be  expected ;  for  'tis  always  one. 

I  dare  tell  you,  whom  I  dare  better  trust. 
That  our  night-eyed  Tiberius  doth  not  see 
His  minion's^  drifts;  or,  if  he  do,  he's  not 
So  arrant  subtile  as  we  fools  do  take  him; 
To  breed  a  mongrel  up,  \^  his  own  house, 
With  his  own  blood,  and,  if  the  good  gods  please. 
At  his  own  throat,  flesh  him,  to  take  a  leap. 
I  do  not  beg  it  heaven ;  but,  if  the  fates 
Grant  it  these  eyes,  they  must  not  wink. 

Lep.  They  must  not  see  it,  Lucius. 

Arr.  Who  should  let'  them? 

Lep.  Zeal 
And  duty,  with  the  thought  he  is  our  prince. 

Arr.  He  is  our  monster:  forfeited  to  vice 
So  far  as  no  rack'd  virtue  can  redeem  him. 
His  loathed  person  fouler  than  all  crimes : 
An  emperor  only  in  his  lusts.     Retired 
From  all  regard  of  his  own  fame  or  Rome's 
Into  an  obscure  island,  ^  where  he  lives 
Acting  his  tragedies  with  a  comic  face 
Amidst  his  rout  of  Chaldees;'*  spending  hours. 
Days,  weeks,  and  months,  in  the  unkind  abuse 
Of  grave  astrology,  to  the  bane  of  men. 
Casting  the  scope  of  men's  nativities. 
And  having  found  aught  worthy  in  their  fortune. 
Kill,  or  precipitate  them  in  the  sea, 
And  boast  he  can  mock  fate.     Nay,  muse  not;  these 

1  Sejanus.  '  Hinder. 

*  Sejanus  haa  persuaded  Tiberius  to  retire  to  the  island  of  Capreee,  now  Capri, 
near  Naples. 

*  A  Semitic  people  from  Mesopotamia,  given  to  astronomy  and  astrology. 


142         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

Are  far. from  ends^  of  evil,  scarce  degrees. 
He  hath  his  slaughter-house  at  Caprese, 
Where  he  doth  study  murder  as  an  art; 
And  they  are  dearest  in  his  grace  that  can 
Devise  the  deepest  tortures.     Thither,  too, 
,        He  liath  his  boys  and  beauteous  girls  ta'en  up 
Out  of  our  noblest  houses,  the  best  form'd. 
Best  nurtured,  and  most  modest ;  what's  their  good 
Serves  to  provoke  his  bad.     Some  are  allured. 
Some  threatened ;  others,  by  their  friends  detained 
Are  ravished  hence,  like  captives,  and,  in  sight 
Of  their  most  grieved  parents,  dealt  away 
Unto  his  spintries,'^  sellaries,^  and  slaves. 
To^  this  (what  most  strikes  us  and  bleeding  Rome) 
He  is,  with  all  his  craff,  become  the  ward 
To  his  own  vassal,  a  stale  catamite*. 
Whom  he,  upon  our  low  and  suffering  necks, 
Hath  raised  from  excrement^  to  side  the  gods. 
And  have  his  proper  sacrifice  in  Rome : 
Which  Jove  beholds,  and  yet  will  sooner  rive 
A  senseless  oak  with  thunder  than  his  trunk! 

Lep.  I'll  ne'er  believe  but  Caesar  hath  some  scent 
Of  bold  Sejanus'  footing.     These  cross  points 
Of  varying  letters  and  opposing  consuls, 
Mingling  his  honors  and  his  punishments. 
Feigning  now  ill,  now  well,  raising  Sejanus 
And  then  depressing  him,  as  now  of  late 
In  all  reports  we  have  it,  cannot  be 
Empty  of  practise :  'tis  Tiberius'  art. 
For  having  found  his  favorite  grown  too  great. 
And  with  his  greatness  strong;  that  all  the  soldiers 
Are,  with  their  leaders,  made  at  his  devotion ; 
That  almost  all  the  senate  are  his  creatures, 
Or  hold  on  him  their  main  dependencies, 
Either  for  benefit  or  hope  or  fear; 
And  that  himself  hath  lost  much  of  his  own, 
By  parting  unto  him;  and,  by  th'  increase 
Of  his  rank,  lusts,  and  rages,  quite  disarm'd 
Himself  of  love  or  other  public  means 

1  His  extremes.  ^  Lewd  people.  ^  In  addition  to. 

*  One  kept  for  unnatural  purposes.  *  The  dirt. 


'Poetry — Ben  Jons  on' s.  143 

To  dare  an  open  contestation; — 
His  subtilty  hath  chose  this  doubling  line 
To  hold  him  even  in:  not  so  to  fear  him 
As  wholly  put  him  out,  and  yet  give  check 
Unto  his  farther  boldness. 

Scene  II.     An  Apartment  in  Sejanus'  House. 

Sej.  Swell,  swell,  my  joys,  and  faint  not  to  declare 
Yourselves  as  ample  as  your  causes  are. 
I  did  not  live  till  now;  this  my  first  hour; 
Wherein  I  see  my  thoughts  reach'd  by  my  power. 
My  roof  receives  me  not ;  'tis  air  I  tread, 
A.nd  at  each  step  I  feel  my  advanced  head 
Knock  out  a  star  in  heaven !  rear'd  to  this  height, 
All  my  desires  seem  modest,  poor,  and  slight 
That  did  before  sound  impudent:  'tis  place 
Not  blood  discerns^  the  noble  and  the  base. 
Is  there  not  something  more  than  to  be  Caesar? 
Must  we  rest  there?  it  irks  t'  have  come  so  far 
To  be  so  near  a  stay.     Caligula, 
Would  thou  stood'st  stiff,  and  many  in  our  way! 
Winds  lose  their  strength  when  they  do  empty  fly 
Unmet  of  woods  or  buildings;  great  fires  die 
That  want  their  matter  to  withstand  them ;  so 
It  is  our  grief,  and  will  be  our  loss,  to  know 
Our  power  shall  want  opposites;^  unless 
The  gods,  by  mixing  in  the  cause,  would  bless 
Our  fortune  with  their  conquest.    That  were  worth 
Sejanus'  strife,  durst  fates  but  bring  it  forth. 

Enter  Terentius,  Satrius,  and  Natta. 

Ter.  Safety  to  great  Sejanus ! 

Sej.  Now,  Terentius? 

Ter.  Hears  not  my  lord  the  wonder? 

Sej.  Speak  it,  no. 

Ter.  I  meet  it  violent  in  the  people's  mouths, 
Who  run  in  routs  to  Pompey's  theatre 
To  view  your  statue,  which,  they  say,  sends  forth 
A  smoke,  as  from  a  furnace,  black  and  dreadful. 

Sej.  Some  traitor  hath  put  fire  in:  you,  go  see, 

»  Separates.  '  Opponents. 


144         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

And  let  the  head  be  taken  off  to  look 

What  'tis.     Some  slave  hath  practised  an  imposture 

To  stir  the  people. 

Sat.  The  head,  my  lord,  already  is  ta'en  off, 
I  saw  it ;  and,  at  opening,  there  leapt  out 
A  great  and  monstrous  serpent. 

8ej.  Monstrous!  why? 
Had  it  a  beard  and  horns?  no  heart?  a  tongue 
Forked  as  flattery  ?  look'd  it  of  the  hue 
To  such  as  live  in  great  men's  bosoms?  was 
The  spirit  of  it  Macro's?  ^ 

Hat.  May  it  please 
The  most  divine  Sejanus,  in  my  days 
I  have  not  seen  a  more  extended,  grown, 
Foul,  spotted,  venemous,  ugly — 

8ej.  Oh,  the  fates! 
What  a  wild  muster's  here  of  attributes 
T'  express  a  worm,  a  snake ! 

Ter.  But  how  that  should 
Come  there,  my  lord! 

8ej.  What,  and  you  too  Terentiusl 
1  think  you  mean  to  make  't  a  prodigy 
In  your  reporting. 

Ter.  Can  the  wise  Sejanus 
Think  heaven  hath  meant  it  less? 

8ej.  Oh,  superstition! 
Why,  then  the  falling  of  our  bed,  that  brake 
This  morning,  burden'd  with  the  populous  weight 
Of  our  expecting  clients,  to  salute  us; 
Or  running  of  the  cat  betwixt  our  legs, 
As  we  set  forth  unto  the  Capitol, 
Were  prodigies. 

Ter.  I  think  them  ominous, 
And  would  they  had  not  happened!  as,  to-day 
The  fate  of  some  your  servants,  who,  declining^ 
Their  way,  not  able,  for  the  throng,  to  follow, 
Slipt  down  the  Gemonies  and  brake  their  necks! 
Besides,  in  taking  your  last  augury, 
No  prosperous  bird  appear'd ;  but  croaking  ravens 

1  Rival  and  successor  to  Sejanus.  ^  Turning  from. 


Poetry — Ben  Jonson^s,  145 

Flagg'd  up  and  down,  and  from  the  sacrifice 
Flew  to  the  prison,  where  they  sat  all  night 
Beating  the  air  with  their  obstreperous^  beaks! 
I  dare  not  counsel  but  I  would  entreat 
That  great  Sejanus  would  attempt  the  gods 
Once  more  with  sacrifice. 

Sej.  What  excellent  fools 
Religion  makes  of  men!    Believes  Terentius, 
If  these  were  dangers,  as  I  shame  to  think  them, 
The  gods  could  change  the  certain  course  of  fate? 
Or,  if  they  could,  they  would,  now  in  a  moment, 
For  a  beeve's  fat,  or  less,  be  bribed  to  invert 
Those  long  decrees?     Then  think  the  gods,  like  flies, 
Are  to  be  taken  with  the  steam  of  flesh 
Or  blood,  diffused  about  their  altars:  think 
Their  power  as  cheap  as  I  esteem  it  small. — 
Of  all  the  throng  that  fill  th'  Olympian  hall 
And,  without  pity,  lade  poor  Atlas'^  back, 
I  know  not  that  one  deity,  but  Fortune, 
To  whom  I  would  throw  up  in  begging  smoke 
One  grain  of  incense ;  or  whose  ear  I'd  buy 
With  thus  much  oil.     Her  I,  indeed,  adore, 
And  keep  her  grateful  image  in  my  house, 
Sometime  belonging  to  a  Roman  king. 
To  her  I  care  not,  if,  for  satisfying 
Your  scrupulous  phant'sies,  sins,  I  go  offer.     Bid 
Our  priest  prepare  us  honey,  milk,  and  poppy. 
His  masculine  odors,  and  night- vestments :  say 
Our  rites  are  instant,  v/hich  performed,  you'll  see 
How  vain  and  worthy  laughter  your  fears  be. 

Exeunt  all  but  Sej. 

If  you  will.  Destinies,  that,  after  all, 
X  faint  now  ere  I  touch  my  period,^ 
You  are  but  cruel ;  and  I  already  have  done 
Things  great  enough.     All  Rome  hath  been  my  slave ; 
The  senate  sate  an  idle  looker  on 
And  witness  of  my  power;  when  I  have  blush'd 
More  to  command  than  it  to  suffer:  all 
The  fathers  have  sate  ready  and  prepared 

Noisy.  "  Doomed  to  hold  up  the  heavens.  s  Highest  point. 


146         Literature  of  Period  IV.,  1558-1603. 

To  give  me  empire,  temples,  or  their  throats 
When  I  would  ask  'era;  and,  what  crowns  the  top, 
Rome,  senate,  people,  all  the  world  have  seen 
Jove  but  my  equal,  Csesar  but  my  second. 
'Tis  then  your  malice,  Fates,  who,  but  your  own. 
Envy  and  fear  to  liave  my  power  long  known. 

His  Masques. — '^Eugged  as  Jonson  was,  he  could  turn  to 
light  and  graceful  work,  and  it  is  with  his  name  that  we  con- 
nect the  Masques.  Masques  were  dramatic  representations  made 
for  a  festive  occasion,  with  a  reference  to  the  persons  present 
and  the  occasion.  Their  personages  were  allegorical.  They 
admitted  of  dialogue,  music,  singing,  and  dancing,  combined 
by  the  use  of  some  ingenious  fable  into  a  whole.  They  were 
made  and  performed  for  the  court  and  the  houses  of  the 
nobles,  and  the  scenery  was  as  gorgeous  and  varied  as  the 
scenery  of  the  playhouse  proper  was  poor  and  unchanging. 
Arriving  for  the  first  time  at  any  repute  in  Henry  VIII. 's 
time,  they  reached  splendor  under  James  and  Charles  I. 
Great  men  took  part  in  them.  When  Ben  Jonson  wrote  tliem, 
Inigo  Jones  made  the  scenery,  and  Lawes  the  music,  and  Lord 
Bacon,  Whitelock,  and  Selden  sat  in  committee  for  the  last 
great  masque  presented  to  Charles.  Milton  himself  made 
them  worthier  by  writing  Comus,  and  their  scenic  decoration 
was  soon  introduced  into  the  regular  theatres. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  worked  together,  but  out  of  more 
than  fifty  plays,  all  written  in  James  I.'s  reign,  not  more  than 
fourteen  were  shared  in  by  Beaumont,  who  died  at  the  age  of 
thirty  in  1616.  Fletcher  survived  him,  and  died  in  1625. 
Both  were  of  gentle  birth.  Beaumont,  where  we  can  trace 
his  work,  is  weightier  and  more  dignified  than  his  comrade, 
but  Fletcher  was  the  better  poet.  Fletcher  wrote  rapidly,  but 
his  imaginfition  worked  slowly.  Their  Philaster  and  Thierry 
mid  Theodoret  are  fine  examples  of  their  tragic  power.  Fletch- 
er's Faithful  Shepherdess  is  full  of  lovely  poetry,  and  both  are 
masters  of  grace  and  pathos  and  style.     They  enfeebled  the 


Poetry — Ben  Jonson  and  Others.  147 

blank  verse  of  the  drama,  while  they  rendered  it  sweeter  by 
using  feminine  endings  and  adding  an  eleventh  syllable  with 
great  frequency.  This  gave  freedom  and  elasticity  to  their 
verse  and  was  suited  to  the  dialogue  of  comedy,  but  it  lowered 
the  dignity  of  their  tragedy. 

These  two  men  mark. a  change  in  politics  and  society  from 
Shakespeare's  time.  Shakespeare's  loyalty  is  constitutional; 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  are  blind  supporters  of  James  I.'s  in- 
vention of  the  divine  right  of  kings.  Shakespeare's  society 
was  on  the  whole  decent,  and  it  is  so  in  his  plays.  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  are  '  studiously  indecent.'  In  contrast  with  them 
Shakespeare  is  as  white  as  snow.  Shakespeare's  men  are  of 
the  type  of  Sidney  and  Ealeigh,  Burleigh  and  Drake.  The 
men  of  these  two  writers  represent  the  'young  bloods'  of  the 
Stuart  Court;  and  even  the  best  of  their  older  and  graved 
men  are  base  and  foul  in  thought.  Their  women  are  either 
monsters  of  badness  or  of  goodness.  When  they  paint  a  good 
woman  (two  or  three  at  most  being  excepted),  she  is  beyond 
nature.  The  fact  is,  that  the  high  art,  which  in  Shake- 
speare sought  to  give  a  noble  pleasure  by  being  true  to  human 
nature  in  its  natural  aspects,  sank  now  into  the  baser  art, 
which  wished  to  excite,  at  any  cost,  the  passions  of  the  audi- 
ence by  representing  human  nature  in  unnatural  aspects. 

In  Massinger  and  Ford  this  evil  is  just  as  plainly  marked. 
Massikger's  first  dated  play  was  the  Virgin  Martyr,  1620. 
He  lived  poor,  and  died  '  a  stranger '  in  1639.  In  these  twenty 
years  he  wrote  thirty-seven  plays,  of  which  the  New  Way  to 
Pay  Old  Debts  is  the  best  known  by  its  character  of  Sir  Giles 
Overreach.  No  writer  is  fouler  in  language,  and  there  is  a 
want  of  unity  of  impression  both  in  his  plots  and  in  his  char- 
acters. He  often  sacrifices  art  to  effect,  and  '  unlike  Shake- 
speare, seems  often  to  despise  his  own  characters.'  On  the 
other  hand,  his  versification  and  language  are  flexible  and 
strong,  *  and  seem  to  rise  out  of  the  passions  he  describes.' 
He  speaks  the  tongue  of  real  life.     His  men  and  women  are 


148         Literature  of  Period  lY.,  1558-1603. 

far  more  natural  than  those  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and, 
with  all  his  coarseness,  he  is  the  most  moral  of  the  secondary 
dramatists.  Nowhere  else  is  his  work  so  great  as  when  he 
represents  the  brave  man  struggling  through  trial  to  victory, 
the  pure  woman  suffering  for  the  sake  of  truth  and  love;  or 
when  he  describes  the  terrors  that  conscience  brings  on  injus- 
tice and  cruelty. 

JoHi^"  Ford,  his  contemporary,  published  his  first  play,  the 
Lover^s  Melanclioly,  in  1629,  and  five  years  after,  Perkin  War- 
hech,  the  best  historical  drama  after  Shakespeare.  Between 
these  dates  appeared  others,  of  which  the  best  is  the  Broken 
Heart.  He  carried  to  an  extreme  the  tendency  of  the  drama 
to  unnatural  and  horrible  subjects,  but  he  did  so  with  very 
great  power.  He  has  no  comic  humor,  but  no  man  has  de- 
scribed better  the  worn  and  tortured  human  heart. 

Webster  and  other  Dramatists.— Higher  as  a  poet,  and 
possessing  the  same  power  as  Ford,  though  not  the  same  ex- 
quisite tenderness,  was  John"  Webster,  whose  best  drama. 
The  Duchess  of  Malfi,  was  acted  in  1616.  Vittoria  Coromlona 
was  printed  in  1612,  and  was  followed  by  the  DeviVs  Law  Case, 
Ajjpitis  and  Virginia,  and  others.  Webster's  peculiar  power 
of  creating  ghastly  horror  is  redeemed  from  sensationalism 
by  his  poetic  insight.  His  imagination  easily  saw,  and  ex- 
pressed in  short  and  intense  lines,  the  inmost  thoughts  and 
feelings  of  characters,  whom  he  represents  as  wrought  on  by 
misery  or  crime  or  remorse,  at  their  very  highest  point  of  pas- 
sion. In  his  worst  characters  there  is  some  redeeming  touch, 
and  this  poetic  pity  brings  him  nearer  to  Shakespeare  than  to 
the  rest.  He  is  also  neither  so  coarse  nor  so  great  a  king 
worshipper  nor  so  irreligious  as  the  others.  We  seem  to  taste 
the  Puritan  in  his  work.  Two  comedies,  Westward  Ho!  and 
Northward  Ho  !  remarkable  for  the  light  they  throw  on  the 
manners  of  the  time,  were  written  by  him  along  with  Thomas 
Dekker. 

George  Chapman  is  the  only  one  of  the  later  Elizabethan 


Poetry — Cliapman  and  Others.  '.  149 

dramatists  who  kept  the  old  fire  of  Marlowe,  though  he  never 
had  the  naturalness  or  temperance  which  lifted  Shakespeare 
far  beyond  Marlowe.  The  same  power  which  we  have  seen  in 
his  translation  of  Homer  is  to  be  found  in  his  plays.  The 
mingling  of  intellectual  power  with  imagination,  and  swollen 
violence  of  words  and  images  with  tender  and  natural  and 
often  splendid  passages,  are  entirely  in  the  earlier  Eliza- 
bethan manner.  He,  too,  like  Marlowe,  to  quote  his  own 
line,  Miurled  instinctive  fire  about  the  Avorld.'  These  were 
the  greatest  names  among  a  crowd  of  dramatists.  We  can 
only  mention  John  Marston,  Henry  Glapthorne,  Richard 
Brome,  William  Rowley,  Thomas  Middleton,  Cyril  Tourneur, 
and  Thomas  Hey  wood.  Of  the  crowd,  *all  of  whom,'  sayg 
Lamb,  ^  spoke  nearly  the  same  language  and  had  a  set  of 
moral  feelings  and  notions  in  common,'  James  Shirley  is 
the  last.  He  lived  till  1666.  In  him  the  fire  and  passion  of 
the  old  time  passes  away,  but  some  of  the  delicate  poetry 
remains,  and  in  him  the  Elizabethan  drama  dies. 

In  1642,  the  theatres  were  closed  during  the  calamitous 
times  of  the  Civil  War.  Strolling  players  managed  to  exist 
with  difficulty,  and  against  the  law,  till  1656,  when  Sir  Wil- 
liam Dave:n"ant  had  his  opera  of  the  Siege  of  Rhodes  acted 
in  London.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  drama,  in  every 
point  but  impurity  different  from  the  old,  and  four  years 
after,  at  the  Restoration,  it  broke  loose  from  the  prison  of  Puri- 
tanism to  indulge  in  a  shameless  license. 

In  this  rapid  sketch  of  the  Drama  in  England,  we  have  been 
carried  on  beyond  the  death  of  Elizabeth  to  the  date  of  the 
Restoration.  It  was  necessary,  because  it  keeps  the  whole 
story  together.  We  now  return  to  the  time  that  followed  the 
accession  of  James  I." 

Bibliography.  Ben  Jonson,  Beaumont,  and  Fletcher  —S.  A.  Dunham's  lAves 
of  Lit.  Men;  W.  Gififord's  Memoir  of;  Taine's  Hist,  of  Eng.  Lit.;  A.  W.  Ward's 
Hist.  Eng.  Dra.  Lit.;  Whipple's  Lit.  of  the  Age  of  Eliz.;  T.  H.  Ward's  Anthology; 
Littell,  1860,  v.  2;  Br.  Quar.  Rev.,  1857;  Eel.  Mag.,  Fq\).  and  Oct.,  1847;  Apr.,  1856; 
May,  1858;  and  Oct.,  1874, 


150         Literature  of  Period  lY.,  1558-1603. 


Scheme  for  Review. 


Material  and  Religious  Condi- 
tion of  the  People,  and 
Troubles  with    Spain    and 

Ireland 

y,  >.     f  Satires,    Epigrams, 

Songs,  etc 

Masques,  Pageants,  and 

Interludes 

Translations 

1^  ^     r  Educational 

a  goi    Theological 

;-- ab  ■{  Stories 

«  5  •-'5 


r  e8»o 


Histories,  Unpublished 
Writings 

Lyly  and  Sidney 

Theological  Literature 
—Hooker 

Essays — Bacon 

History 

Travels  and  Tales 

Extract  from  Sidney. . . 

From  Hooker 

LFrom  Bacon 


91 

92 

93 
93 
94 
94 
94 

95 
96 


100 
100 
103 
104 


Spenser's  Faerie  Queen 108 

His  Minor  Poems Ill 

Extract  from  Faerie  Queen  112 

Love  Poetry 116 

Patriotic  Poetrj;^ 117 

Philosophical  Poetry 119 

Translations 119 

Miracle-Plays 121 

Moral-Plays 122 

Interludes 123 

The  Regular  Drama. . .  124 

The  Theatre ;.  124 

Lyly  and  Marlowe 126 

Shakespeare 132 

His  Four  Periods 132 

His  Work 136 

Ben  Jonson 138 

Extract  from  Jonson. . .  139 

His  Masques 146 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  146 

Massingerand  Ford 147 

Webster  and  Chapman.  148 
Shirley  and  Davenant. .  149 


PERIOD   V. 

Prom  Elizabeth's  Death  to  the  Restoration, 

1 603- 1 660. 

Lesson  27. 

Brief  Historical  Sketch.— James  VI.  of  Scotland,  son  of  Mary,  Queea 

of  Scots,  and  of  Darnley,  comes  to  the  English  tlirone,  1603,  as  Jas.  I., 
and  is  the  first  of  the  Stuart  House.  Gunpowder  Plot,  1605.  First 
permanent  EtigUsh  settlement  in  America,  at  Jamestown,  Virginia, 
1607.  Thermometer  invented,  1610.  King  James's  Bible,  a  revision  of 
Wyclif's,  Tyndale's,  and  Coverdale's  translations,  issued,  1611.  Harvey 
discovers  circulation  of  the  blood,  1616.  Expedition  and  death  of 
Raleigh,  1617.  Settlement  of  New  England  at  Plymouth,  1620,  the 
year  negro  slavery  was  introduced  into  the  Virginia  Colony.  Charles, 
son  of  James,  married  to  Henrietta,  daughter  of  Hen.  IV.  of  France, 
became-  King  of  England,  1625.  Hampden  refused  to  pay  his  ship- 
money  tax,  1637.  Covenant  signed  in  Scotland,  1638, — an  agreement 
by  which  the  people  bound  themselves  to  resist  the  re-introduction 
of  Episcopacy  into  Scotland.  Long  Parliament  met,  1640.  Strafford 
executed,  1641,  and  Laud,  1644.  Civil  war  broke  out,  1642.  Puritans 
separate  into  Presbyterians  and  Independents.  Battle  of  Naseby,  1645. 
Long  Parliament  reduced  by  Pride's  Purge  to  the  Rump,  1648.  King 
executed,  1649.  Conquest  of  Ireland  by  Cromwell,  same  year.  Coffee- 
houses established  in  London,  1652.  Rump  Parliament  abolished, 
1653.  Cromwell  made  Lord  Protector,  same  year.  Civil  marriage 
legalized,  same  year.  Post-Office  established,  1657.  Watches  for  the 
pocket  first  made  in  England,  1658.  Cromwell  died,  1658.  Richard 
Cromwell  made  Protector,  1658. 


152  Literature  of  Period  Y.,  1603-1660. 

Lesson  28. 

Prose. — "  We  have  traced  the  decline  of  the  drama  of  Eliza- 
beth up  to  the  date  of  the  Eestoration.  All  i)oetrj  suffered 
in  the  same  way  after  the  reign  of  James  I.  It  became  fan- 
tastic in  style  and  overwrought  in  thought.  It  was  diffuse, 
or  violent,  in  expression.  Prose  literature,  on  the  contrary, 
gradually  grew  into  greater  excellence,  spread  itself  over 
larger  fields  of  thought,  and  took  up  a  greater  variety  of  sub- 
jects. The  grave  national  struggle,  Avhile  it  lessened  poetical, 
increased  prose,  literature.  The  painting  of  short  *  Characters ' 
was  begun  by  Sir  T.  Overbury's  book  in  1614,  and  carried  on 
by  John  Earle  and  Joseph  Hall,  afterwards  made  bishops. 
They  mark  the  interest  in  individual  life  which  now  began  to 
arise,  and  which  soon  took  form  in  Biography. 

Thomas  Fuller's  Holy  and  Profane  State,  1642,  added  to 
sketches  of  ^  characters '  illustrations  of  them  in  the  lives  of 
famous  persons,  and  in  1662  his  Worthies  of  England  still  fur- 
ther set  on  foot  the  literature  of  Biography.  Tlie  historical 
literature,  which  we  have  noticed  already  in  the  works  of  Ral- 
eigh and  Bacon,  was  carried  on  by  Fuller  in  his  Church  His- 
tory of  Britain,  1656.  He  is  a  quaint  and  delightful -writer; 
good  sense,  piety,  and  inventive  wit  are  woven  together  in  his 
work.  We  may  place  together  Robert  Burto^-'s  Anatomy  of 
Melancholy,  1621,  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  i?e%fo  Medici, 
1642,  and  Pseudodoxia  as  looTcs  which  treat  of  miscellaneotis 
subjects  in  a  witty  and  learned  fashion.  This  kind  of  writing 
was  greatly  increased  by  the  setting  up  oflilraries,  where  men 
dipped  into  every  kind  of  literature.  It  was  in  James  I.'s 
reign  that.  Sir  Thomas  Bodley  established  the  Bodleian  at 
Oxford,  and  Sir  Robert  Cotton  a  library  now  placed  in  the 
British  Museum.  A  number  of  small  writers  took  part  in  the 
Puritan  and  Church  controversies,  among  whom  William 
Prtn-^-e,  a  violent  Puritan,  deserves  to  be  mentioned  for  his 
Histrio-Mastix,  or  Scourge  of  Players, 


Frose — Fuller,  Taylor,  and  Others.  153 

But  there  were  others  on  each  side  who  rose  above  the  war 
of  party  into  the  calm  air  of  spiritual  religion.  Jeremy 
Taylor  at  the  close  of  Charles  I.'s  reign  published  his  Great 
Exemplar  and  his  Holy  Living  and  Holy  Dying,  and  shortly 
afterwards  his  Sermons.  They  had  been  preceded  in  1647  by 
his  Liberty  of  Prophesying ,  in  which  he  claimed  full  freedom 
of  Biblical  interpretation  as  the  right  of  all,  and  asked  for 
only  one  standard  of  faith — the  Apostles'  Creed.  His  work  is 
especially  literary.  Weighty  with  argument,  his  sermons  and 
books  of  devotion  are  still  read  among  us  for  their  sweet  and 
deep  devotion,  for  their  rapidly  flowing  and  poetic  eloquence. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  Civil  Wars,  Richard  Baxter,  the 
great  Puritan  writer,  wrote  a  good  book,  which,  as  it  still  re- 
mains a  household  book  in  England,  takes  its  place  in  litera- 
ture. There  are  few  cottages  which  do  not  possess  a  copy  of 
TJie  Sainfs  Everlasting  Best;  and  there  are  few  parsonages 
in  England  in  which  Robert  Leighto:n''s  book  on  the  Epistle 
of  St.  Peter  is  not  also  to  be  found.  Leighton  died  in  1684, 
Archbishop  of  Glasgow.  In  philosophic  literature  I  have  al- 
ready spoken  of  Bacon,  and  of  the  political  writers,  such  as 
Hobbes  and  Harrington,  who  wrote  during  the  Common- 
wealth, I  will  speak  hereafter  in  their  proper  place. 

Miscellaneous  writing  is  further  represented  in  the  litera- 
ture of  travel  by  George  Sandys  and  Thomas  Cory  at. 
Coryafs  Crudities,  1611,  describes  his  journey  through  France 
and  Italy;  Sandys'  book,  1615,  a  journey  to  the  East.  We 
have  also  from  abroad  some  interesting  letters  from  Sir  Henry 
Wotton,  and  he  gave  Milton  introductions  to  famous  men  in 
Italy.  Wotton's  quaint  and  pleasant  friend  Izaak  Waltoj?- 
closes  the  list  of  these  pre-Restoration  writers  with  the  Com- 
pleat  Angler,  1653,  a  book  which  resembles  in  its  quaint  and 
garrulous  style  the  rustic  scenery  and  prattling  rivers  that  it 
celebrates,  and  marks  the  quiet  interest  in  the  country  which 
now  began  to  grow  up  in  England. 

The  style  of  all  these  writers  links  them  to  the  age  of  Eliza- 


154  Literature  of  Period  F.,  1603-1660. 

beth.  It  did  not  follow  the  weighty  gravity  of  Hooker,  or  the 
balanced  calm  and  splendor  of  Bacon,  but  rather  the  witty 
quaintness  of  Lyly  and  of  Sydney.  The  prose  of  men  like 
Browne  and  Biirtou  and  Fuller  is  not  as  poetic  as  that  of 
these  Elizabethan  writers,  but  it  is  just  as  fanciful.  Even 
the  prose  of  Jeremy  Taylor  is  over  poetical,  and  though  it  has 
all  the  Elizabethan  ardor,  it  has  also  the  Elizabethan  faults  of 
excessive  wordiness  and  involved  periods  and  images.  It  never 
knows  where  to  stop.  Milton's  prose  works,  which  shall  be 
mentioned  in  their  place  in  his  life,  are  also  Elizabethan  in 
style.  Their  style  has  the  fire  and  violence,  the  eloquence  and 
diffuseness,  of  the  earlier  literature,  but,  in  spite  of  the  praise 
it  has  received,  it  is  in  reality  scarcely  to  be  called  a  style.  It 
has  all  the  faults  a  prose  style  can  have  except  obscurity  and 
vulgarity.  Its  bursts  of  eloquence  ought  to  be  in  poetry,  and 
it  never  charms  except  when  Milton  becomes  purposely  sim- 
ple in  personal  narrative.  There  is  no  pure  style  in  prose 
writing  till  Hobbes  began  to  write  in  English,  indeed  we  may 
say  till  after  the  Restoration,  unless  we  except,  on  grounds  of 
weight  and  power,  the  styles  of  Bacon  and  Hooker.'' 

Bibliography.  Fuller,  Taylor,  and  Browne.— E.  Lawrence's  Lives  of  Brit.  His- 
torians; H.Rogers'  Life  and  Writings  of;  Minto's  Man.  Eng.  Prose  Lit.;  Littell,  v. 
19,  1857;  Cornhill  Mag.,  v.  25,^1873;  J.  Foster's  Crit.  Essays;  Contemp.  Rev.,  v.  9, 
1868;  Quart.  Rev.,  v.  131,  1871;''Ec1.  Mag.,  Aug.,  1851;  Tuckerman's  Characteristics; 
Bulwer's  Crit.  Writings;  S.  Johnson's  Life  of;  Eel.  Mag.,  v.  25,  1852;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v. 
94,  1862. 

From  Thomas  Fuller. 

The  Good  Schoolmaster. — lie  studieih  Ms  scholars*  natures  as  care" 
fully  as  they  their  books,  and  ranks  their  dispositions  into  several  forms. 
And  though  it  may  seem  difficult  for  him  in  a  great  school  to  descend  to 
all  particulars,  yet  experienced  schoolmasters  may  quickly  make  a  gram- 
mar of  boys*  natures,  and  reduce  them  all,  saving  some  few  exceptions, 
to  these  general  rules: — 

1.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  industrious. — The  conjunction  of  two 
such  planets  in  a  youth  presages  much  good  unto  him.  To  such  a  lad 
a  frown  may  be  a  whipping,  and  a  whipping  a  death;  j^ea,  where  their 
master  whips  them  once,  shame  whips  them  all  the  week  after.  Such 
natures  he  useth  with  all  gentleness. 


Prose— Fuller's.  155 


2.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  idle. — These  think,  with  the  hare  in 
the  fable,  that,  running  with  snails,  (so  they  count  the  rest  of  their 
school-fellows)  they  shall  come  soon  enough  to  the  post,  though  sleep- 
ing a  good  while  before  their  starting.  Oh!  a  good  rod  would  finely 
take  them  napping! 

3.  Those  tluit  are  dull  and  diligent.— y^\ne&~i\iQ  stronger  they  be,  the 
more  lees  they  have  when  they  are  new.  Many  boys  are  muddy-headed 
till  they  be  clarified  with  age ;  and  such  afterwards  prove  the  best.  Bris- 
tol diamonds  are  both  bright  and  squared  and  pointed  by  nature  and  yet 
are  soft  and  worthless;  whereas  orient  ones,  in  India,  are  rough  and 
rugged  naturally.  Hard,  rugged,  and  dull  natures  of  youth  acquit 
themselves  afterwards  the  jewels  of  the  country;  and,  tlierefore,  their 
dulness  at  first  is  to  be  borne  with,  if  they  be  diligent.  That  school- 
master deserves  to  be  beaten  himself  who  beats  nature  in  a  boy  for  a 
fault.  And  I  question  whether  all  the  whipping  in  the  world  can  make 
their  parts  which  are  naturally  sluggish  rise  one  minute  before  the  hour 
nature  hath  appointed. 

4.  Those  that  are  inmncihly  dull  and  negligent  also. — Correction  may 
reform  the  latter,  not  amend  the  former.  All  the  whetting  in  the  world 
can  never  set  a  razor's  edge  on  that  which  hath  no  steel  in  it.  Such 
boys  he  consigneth  over  to  other  professions.  Shipwrights  and  boat- 
makers  will  choose  those  crooked  pieces  of  timber  which  other  carpen- 
ters refuse.  Those  may  make  excellent  merchants  and  mechanics  who 
will  not  serve  for  scholars. 

He  is  able,  diligent,  and  methodieal  in  his  teaching.  Not  leading  them 
rather  in  a  circle  than  forwards.  He  minces  his  precepts  for  children 
to  swallow;  hanging  clogs  on  the  nimbleness  of  his  own  soul  that  his 
scholars  may  go  along  with  him. 

He  is  moderate  in  inflicting  deserved  correction.  Many  a  schoolmaster 
better  answereth  the  name  paidotrihe^  than  paidagogos,^  rather  "tearing 
his  scholars'  flesh  with  whipping  than  giving  them  good  education." 
No  wonder  if  his  scholars  hate  the  Muses,  being  presented  unto  them 
in  the  shapes  of  fiends  and  furies.  Such  an  Orbilius^  mars  more  schol- 
ars than  he  makes.  Their  tyranny  hath  caused  many  tongues  to  stammer 
which  spake  plain  by  nature,  and  whose  stuttering  at  first  was  nothing 
else  but  fears  quavering  on  their  speech  at  their  master's  presence,  and 
whose  mauling  them  about  their  heads  hath  dulled  those  who  in  quick- 
ness exceeded  their  master. 

He  spoils  not  a  good  school  to  make  thereof  a  had  college,  therein  to  teach 

>  Boyflogger.  2  Boyteacher.  ^  a  rigid  disciplinarian,  an  instructor  of  the  poet 
Horace. 


156  Literature  of  Period   F.,  1603-1660. 

his  scholars  logic.  For,  besides  that  logic  may  have  an  action  of  tres- 
pass against  grammar  for  encroaching  on  her  liberties,  syllogisms  are 
solecisms  taught  in  the  school;  and,  oftentimes,  youth  are  forced  after- 
wards, in  the  University,  to  unlearn  the  fumbling  skill  they  had  before. 

Oat  of  Ms  school  lie  is  no  whit  pedantical  in  carriage  or  discourse,  con- 
tenting himself  to  be  rich  in  Latin,  though  he  doth  not  jingle  with  it  in 
every  company  wherein  he  comes. 

Memory. — It  is  the  treasure-house  of  the  mind,  wherein  the  monu- 
ments thereof  are  kept  and  preserved,  Plato  makes  it  the  mother 
of  the  Muses.  Aristotle  sets  it  one  degree  further,  making  experience 
the  mother  of  arts,  memory  the  parent  of  experience.  Philosophers 
place  it  in  the  rear  of  the  head;  and  it  seems  the  mine  of  memory  lies 
there,  because  i(7ie?'e  naturally  men  dig  for  it,  scratching  it  when  they 
are  at  a  loss.  This,  again,  is  twofold;  one  the  simple  retention  of 
things,  the  other  a  regaining  them  when  forgotten. 

Brute  creatures  equal,  if  not  exceed,  men  in  a  bare  retentive  memory. — 
Through  how  many  labyrinths  of  woods,  without  other  clew  of  thread 
than  natural  instinct,  doth  the  hunted  hare  return  to  her  muce!^  How 
doth  tlie  little  bee,  flying  into  several  meadows  and  gardens,  sipping  of 
many  cups,  yet  never  intoxicated,  through  an  ocean  (as  I  may  say)  of 
air  steadily  steer  herself  home,  without  help  of  cord  or  compass!  But 
these  cannot  play  an  after-game,  and  recover  what  they  have  forgotten, 
which  is  done  by  the  mediation  of  discourse. 

First  soundly  infix  in  thy  mind  what  thou  desirest  to  remember. — What 
wonder  is  it  if  agitation  of  business  jog  that. out  of  thy  head  which  was 
there  rather  tacked  than  fastened?  It  is  best  knocking  in  the  nail  over- 
night, and  clinching  it  the  next  morning. 

Overburden  nx)t  thy  memory  to  make  so  faithful  a  servant  a  slave. — Ke- 
member  Atlas  was  weary.  Have  as  much  reason  as  a  camel — to  rise 
when  thou  hast  thy  full  load.  Memory  is  like  a  purse,~if  it  be  over-full 
that  it  cannot  shut,  all  will  drop  out  of  it.  Take  heed  of  a  gluttonous 
curiosity  to  feed  on  many  things,  lest  the  greediness  of  the  appetite  of 
thy  memory  spoil  the  digestion  thereof.  Beza's  case  was  peculiar  and 
memorable.  Being  over  fourscore  years  of  age,  he  perfectly  could  say 
by  heart  any  Greek  chapter  in  St.  Paul's  Epistles,  or  anything  else 
which  he  had  learned  long  before,  but  forgot  wliatsoever  was  newly  told 
him;  his  memory,  like  an  inn,  retaining  old  guests,  but  having  no  room 
to  entertain  new. 

Marshal  thy  notions  into  a  handsome  method. — One  will  carry  twice 

» Gap  in  the  hedge. 


Prose — Jeremy  Taylor'^  s.  157 

more  weight  trussed  and  packed  up  in  bundles  tlian  when  it  lies  un- 
towardly  flapping  and  hanging  about  his  shoulders.  Things  orderly 
fardled  ^  up  under  heads  are  most  portable. 

LiESSOisr  29. 

From  Jeremy  Taylor — TJie  best  use  of  speech. 

Our  conversation  must  be  "apt  to  comfort  "the  disconsolate;  and 
than  this,  men  in  present  can  feel  no  greater  charity.  For,  since  half 
the  duty  of  a  Christian  in  this  life  consists  in  the  exercise  of  passive 
graces;  and  the  infinite  variety  of  providence  and  the  perpetual  adversity 
of  chances  and  the  dissatisfaction  and  emptiness  that  is  in  things  them- 
selves and  the  weariness  and  anguish  of  our  spirit  call  us  to  the  trial  and 
exercise  of  patience  even  in  the  days  of  sunshine,  and  much  more  in  the 
violent  storms  that  shake  our  dwellings  and  make  our  hearts  tremble; 
God  hath  sent  some  angels  into  the  world  whose  office  it  is  to  refresh 
the  sorrows  of  the  poor  and  to  lighten  the  eyes  of  the  disconsolate.  He 
hath  made  some  creatures  whose  powers  are  chiefly  ordained  to  comfort, 
— wine,  and  oil,  and  society,  cordials,  and  variety;  and  time  itself  is 
checkered  with  black  and  white ;  stay  but  till  to-morrow,  and  your  pres- 
ent sorrow  will  be  weary  and  will  lie  down  to  rest. 

But  this  is  not  all.  God  glories  in  the  appellative  that  he  is  "the 
Father  of  mercies,  and  the  God  of  all  comfort;"  and  therefore  to  minister 
in  the  office  is  to  become  like  God  and  to  imitate  the  charities  of  Heaven. 
And  God  hath  fitted  mankind  for  it ;  man  most  needs  it,  and  he  feels 
his  brother's  wants  by  his  own  experience;  and  God  hath  given  us 
speech,  and  the  endearments  of  society,  and  pleasantness  of  conversa- 
tion, and  powers  of  seasonable  discourse,  arguments  to  allay  the  sorrow 
by  abating  our  apprehensions  and  taking  out  the  sting  or  telling  the 
periods  of  comfort  or  exciting  hope  or  urging  a  precept  and  reconciling 
our  affections  and  reciting  promises  or  telling  stories  of  the  Divine 
mercy  or  changing  it  into  duty  or  making  the  burden  less  by  comparing 
it  with  greater  or  by  proving  it  to  be  less  than  we  deserve  and  that  it 
is  so  intended  and  may  become  the  instrument  of  virtue. 

And  certain  it  is  that,  as  nothing  can  better  do  it,  so  there  is  nothing 
greater  for  which  God  made  our  tongues,  next  to  reciting  his  praises, 
than  to  minister  comfort  to  a  weary  soul.  And  what  greater  measure 
can  we  have  than  that  we  should  bring  joy  to  our  brother,  who  with  his 
dreary  eyes  looks  to  heaven  and  round  about,  and  cannot  find  so  much 

1  Bundled. 


158         Literature  of  Period  V.,  1603-1660. 


rest  as  to  lay  his  eyelids  close  together,  than  that  thy  tongue  should  be 
tuned  with  heavenly  accents,  and  make  the  weary  soul  listen  for  light 
and  ease:  and,  when  he  perceives  that  there  is  such  a  thing  in  the  world 
and  in  the  order  of  things  as  comfort  and  joy,  to  begin  to  break  out 
from  the  prison  of  his  sorrows  at  the  door  of  sighs  and  tears,  and  by 
little  and  little  melt  into  showers  of  refreshment?  This  is  the  glory  of 
thy  voice,  and  employment  fit  for  the  brightest  angel. 

But  so  have  I  seen  the  Sun  kiss  tlie  frozen  earth,  which  was  bound 
up  with  the  images  of  death  and  the  colder  breath  of  the  north :  and 
then  the  waters  break  from  their  enclosures  and  melt  with  joy  and  run 
in  useful  channels;  and  the  flies  do  rise  again  from  their  little  graves  in 
walls,  and  dance  awhile  in  the  air,  to  tell  that  there  is  joy  within  and 
that  the  great  mother  of  creatures  will  open  the  stock  of  refreshments, 
become  useful  to  mankind,  and  sing  praises  to  her  Redeemer.  So  is  the 
heart  of  a  sorrowful  man  under  the  discourses  of  a  wise  comforter;  he 
breaks  from  the  despairs  of  tlie  grave,  and  the  fetters  and  chains  of 
sorrow ;  he  blesses  God  and  he  blesses  thee  and  he  feels  his  life  return- 
ing; for  to  be  miserable  is  death,  and  nothing  is  life  but  to  be  comforted; 
and  God  is  pleased  with  no  music  from  below  so  much  as  in  the  thanks- 
giving songs  of  relieved  widows,  of  supported  orphans,  of  rejoicing  and 
comforted  and  thankful  persons.  This  part  of  communication  does  the 
work  of  God  and  of  our  neighbors,  and  bears  us  to  Heaven  in  streams 
of  joy  made  by  the  overflowings  of  our  brother's  comfort. 

It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  see  a  man  despairing;  none  knows  the  sorrow 
and  the  intolerable  anguish  but  themselves,  and  they  that  are  damned; 
and  so  are  all  the  loads  of  a  wounded  spirit,  when  the  staff  of  a  man's 
broken  fortune  bows  his  head  to  the  ground,  and  sinks  like  an  osier 
under  the  violence  of  a  mighty  tempest.  But  therefore,  in  proportion 
to  this,  I  may  tell  the  excellency  of  the  employment,  and  the  duty  of 
that  charity  which  bears  the  dying  and  languishing  soul  from  the  fringes 
of  hell  to  the  seat  of  the  brightest  stars,  where  God's  face  shines  and  re- 
flects comforts  for  ever  and  ever. 

And,  though  God  hath  for  this  especially  intrusted  his  ministers  and 
servants  of  the  Church,  and  hath  put  into  their  hearts  and  notices  great 
magazines  of  promises  and  arguments  of  hope  and  arts  of  the  Spirit,  yet 
God  does  not  always  send  angels  on  these  embassies,  but  sends  a  man, 
that  every  good  man  in  his  season  may  be  to  his  brother  in  the  place  of 
God.  to  comfort  and  restore  him.  And,  that  it  may  appear  how  much 
it  is  the  duty  of  us  all  to  minister  comfort  to  our  brother,  we  may  re- 
member that  the  same  words  and  the  same  arguments  do  oftentimes 
much  more  prevail  upon  our  spirits  when  they  are  applied  by  the  hand 


Prose — Browne^  s.  159 

of  another  than  when  they  dwell  in  us  and  come  from  our  own  discours- 
ings.     This  is  indeed  the  greatest  and  most  holy  charity. 

From  Browne's  Hydriotaphia —  Uini  Burial. 

Now  since  these  dead  bones'  have  already  outlasted  the  living  ones  of 
Methuselah,  and  in  a  yard  underground,  and  thin  walls  of  clay,  outworn 
all  the  strong  and  specious"^  buildings  above  it,  and  quietly  rested  under 
the  drums  and  tramplings  of  three  conquests, ^  what  prince  can  promise 
such  diuturnity*  unto  his  relics?  Time,  which  antiquates  antiquities, 
and  hath  an  art  to  make  dust  of  all  things,  hath  yet  spared  these  minor 
monuments. 

What  time  the  persons  of  these  ossuaries^  entered  the  famous  nations 
of  the  dead  and  slept  with  princes  and  counsellors  might  admit  a  wide 
solution.  But  who  were  the  proprietaries  of  these  bones  or  what  bodies 
these  aslies  made  up  were  a  question  above  antiquarism,  not  to  be  re- 
solved by  man  nor  easily,  perhaps,  by  spirits,  except  we  consult  the 
provincial  guardians,  or  tutelary  observators.  Had  they  made  as  good 
provision  for  their  names  as  they  have  done  for  their  relics,  they  had 
not  so  grossly  erred  in  the  art  of  perpetuation.  But  to  subsist  in  bones 
and  be  but  pyramidally  extant  is  a  fallacy  in  duration. 

There  is  no  antidote  against  the  opium  of  time,  which  temporally 
considereth  all  things;  our  fathers  find  their  graves  in  our  short  memo- 
ries, and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors.  Grave- 
stones tell  truth  scarce  forty  years."  Generations  pass  while  some  trees 
stand,  and  old  families  last  not  three  oaks.  To  be  read  by  bare  inscrip- 
tions, like  many  in  Gruter,''  to  hope  for  eternity  by  enigmatical  epithets 
or  first  letters  of  our  names,  to  be  studied  by  antiquaries,  who  we  were, 
and  have  new  names  given  us,  like  many  of  the  mummies,  are  cold  con- 
solations unto  the  students  of  perpetuity,  even  by  everlasting  languages. 

To  be  content  that  times  to  come  should  only  know  that  there  was 
such  a  man,  not  caring  whether  they  knew  more  of  him,  was  a  frigid 
ambition  in 'Cardan, 8  disparaging  his  horoscopal  inclination  and  judg- 
ment of  himself.  Who  cares  to  subsist  like  Hippocrates's^  patients 
or   Achilles's  horses  in   Homer,   under  naked  nominations,'"  without 

1  Supposed  to  be  of  the  Romans  that  occupied  the  island.  The  Romans  burned 
the  dead  and  buried  the  ashes  in  urns.  Forty  or  fifty  of  these  were  dug  up  in  Nor- 
folk in  Browne's  time.  2  Showy.  3  Tell  what  three.  *  Duration.  ^  Burial  places. 
«  Inscriptions  wear  away.  ''  Born  at  Antwerp  1560,  he  lived  awhile  at  Norwich. 
Browne's  place,  graduated  at  Leyden,  became  a  learned  man,  a  professor,  and 
author  of  many  works,  and  died  1627.  ^  Born  at  Pavia  1501,  died  at  Rome  1576. 
Was  a  noted  astrologer.  This  explains  the  remainder  of  the  sentence.  **  The  father 
of  physic,  born  about  460  B.C.    i"  Merely  named. 


160  Literature  of  Period  F.,  1603-1660. 

deserts  and  noble  acts,  which  are  the  balsam^  of  our  memories,  the 
entelechia'^  and  soul  of  our  subsistencies?  To  be  nameless  in  worthy 
deeds  exceeds  an  infamous  history.  The  Canaanitish^  woman  lives  more 
happily  without  a  name  than  Herodias^  with  one.  And  who  had  not 
rather  have  been  the  good  thief  ^  than  Pilate?^ 

But  the  iniquity*  of  oblivion  blindly  scattereth  her  poppy,  and  deals 
with  the  memory  of  men  without  distinction  to  merit  of  perpetuity. 
Who  can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the  pyramids?  Herostratus  lives  that 
burnt  the  temple  of  Diana, ^  he  is  almost  lost  that  built  it.  Time  hath 
spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's^  horse,  confounded  that  of  himself.  la 
vain  we  compute  our  felicities  by  the  advantage  of  our  good  names, 
since  bad  have  equal  durations,  and  Thersites  is  like  to  live  as  long  as 
Agamemnon''  without  the  favor  of  the  everlasting  register.  Who  knows 
whether  the  best  of  men  be  known,  or  whether  there  be  not  more  re- 
markable persons  forgot  than  any  that  stand  remembered  in  the  known 
account  of  time? 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater  part  must  be  content  to  be 
as  though  they  had  not  been,  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God,  not  la 
the  record  of  man.  Twenty-seven  names  make  up  the  first  story,  and 
the  recorded  names  ever  since  contain  not  one  living  century.*  The 
number  of  the  dead  long  exceedeth  all  that  shall  live.  The  night  of  time 
far  surpasseth  the  day,  and  who  knows  when  was  the  equinox?^  Every 
hour  adds  unto  that  current  arithmetic,  which  scarce  stands  one  mo- 
ment. And  since  death  must  be  the  Lucina^°  of  life  and  even  pagans 
could  doubt  whether  thus  to  live  were  to  die;  since  our  longest  sun  sets 
at  right  descensions,  and  makes  but  winter  arches,  and  therefore  it  can- 
not be  long  before  we  lie  down  in  darkness,  and  have  our  light  in  ashes; 
since  the  brother  of  death'^  daily  haunts  us  with  dying  mementos,  and 
time,  that  grows  old  in  itself,  bids  us  hope  no  long  duration; — diutur- 
nity  is  a  dream  and  folly  of  expectation. 

There  is  nothing  strictly  immortal  but  immortality.  Whatever  hath 
no  beginning  may  be  confident  of  no  end — all  others  have  a  dependent 
being  and  within  the  reach  of  destruction — which  is  the  peculiar'^  of  that 
necessary  essence  that  cannot  destroy  itself,  and  the  highest  strain  of 
omnipotency,  to  be  so  powerfully  constituted  as  not  to  suffer  even  from 


^  Preserver.  ^  xhat  by  which  our  existence  (subsistences)  actually  is.  ^  See  John 
iv,  Matt,  xiv,  and,  Mark  xxiii.  ■*  Inequality,  partiality.  ^  Daughter  of  Jupiter  and 
Latona,  and  goddess  of  the  chase.  «  An  illustrious  Rom.  Emparor,  the  14th,  b.  76 
A.D.,  d.  138.  ■'  Commander  of  the  Greek  forces  before  Troy,  and  Thersites  was  a 
railler  in  his  camp.  »  Hundred.  »  When  the  time  past  equalled  that  to  come. 
10  The  goddess  of  childbirth,    ii  Sleep.    "Peculiarity. 


Poetry — Lyric^  Rural^  and  Religious,       161 

the  power  of  itself.  But  the  suflaciency  of  Christian  immortality  frus- 
trates all  earthly  glory,  and  the  quality  of  either  state  after  death  makes 
a  folly  of  posthumous'  memory.  God  who  can  only  destroy  our  souls 
and  hath  assured  our  resurrection,  either  of  our  bodies  or  names  hath 
directly  promised  no  duration.  Wherein  there  is  so  much  of  chance 
that  the  boldest  expectants  have  found  unhappy  frustration,  and  to 
hold  long  subsistence  seems  but  a  scape  in  oblivion.  But  man  is  a  no- 
ble animal,  splendid  in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave,  solemnizing 
nativities  and  deaths  with  equal  lustre,  nor  omitting  ceremonies  of 
bravery  in  the  infancy  of  his  nature. 

Lesson  30. 

The  Decline  of  Poetry. — "  The  yarious  elements  which 
we  haye  noticed  in  the  poetry  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  without  the 
exception,  eyen,  of  the  slight  Catholic  element,  though  op- 
posed to  each  other,  were  filled  with  one  spirit — the  loye  of 
England  and  the  Queen.  Nor  were  they  ever  sharply  divided; 
they  are  found  mixed  together  and  modifying  one  another  in 
the  same  poet,  as,  for  instance,  Puritanism  and  Chivalry  in 
Spenser,  Catholicism  and  Love  in  Constable;  and  all  are  mixed 
together  in  Shakespeare  and  the  dramatists.  This  unity  of 
spirit  in  poetry  became  less  and  less  after  the  Queen's  death. 
The  elements  remained,  but  they  were  separated.  Poetry  was 
the  bundle  of  sticks  with  the  cord  round  it  in  Elizabeth's 
time;  in  the  time  of  Charles  I.  it  was  the  same  bundle  with  the 
cord  removed  and  the  sticks  set  apart.  The  cause  of  this  was, 
that  the  strife  in  politics  between  the  Divine  Right  of  Kings 
and  Liberty,  and  in  religion  between  the  Church  and  the  Puri- 
tans grew  so  defined  and  intense  that  England  ceased  to  be 
at  one,  and  the  poets,  though  not  so  strongly  as  other  classes, 
were  separated  into  sections. 

A  certain  style,  which  induced  Johnson  to  call  them  '  meta- 
physical,'  belongs  more  or  less  to  all  these  poets.  They  were 
those,  Hallam  says,  *  who  labored  after  conceits,  or  noyel  turns 

1  After  death- 


162         Literature  of  Period  V".,  1603-1660. 

of  thought,  usually  false,  and  resting  on  some  equivocation  of 
language  or  exceedingly  remote  analogy.'  This  form  finds  its 
true  source  in  the  fantastic  style  of  the  Euphues  and  the  Arca- 
dia. It  grew  up  again  towards  the  close  of  Elizabeth's  reign, 
and  it  ended  by  greatly  lessening  good  sense  and  clearness  in 
English  poetry.  It  was  in  the  reaction  from  it,  and  in  the 
determination  to  bring  clear  thought  and  clear  expression  of 
thought  into  English  verse,  that  the  school  of  Dryden  and 
Pope — the  critical  school — began.  The  poetry  from  the  later 
years  of  Elizabeth  to  Milton  illustrates  all  these  remarks. 

The  Lyric  Poetry  struck  a  new  note  in  the  songs  of  Ben 
Jonson,  such  as  the  Hymn  to  Diana.  They  are  less  natural, 
less  able  to  be  sung,  than  Shakespeare's,  more  classical,  more 
artificial.  But  they  have  no  special  tendency.  Later  on, 
daring  the  reign  of  Charles  I.  and  during  the  Civil  War,  the 
lyrics  of  Thomas  Carew,  Sir  Johk  Suckling,  Colonel 
Lovelace,  and  Robert  Herrick,  whose  Hesjjerides  was  pub- 
lished in  1648,  have  a  special  royalist  and  court  character. 
They  are,  for  the  most  part,  light,  pleasant,  short  songs  and 
epigrams  on  the  passing  interests  of  the  day,  on  the  charms 
of  the  court  beauties,  on  a  lock  of  hair,  a  dress,  on  all  the 
fleeting  forms  of  fleeting  love.  Here  and  there  we  find  a  pure 
or  pathetic  song,  and  there  are  few  of  them  which  time  has 
selected  that  do  not  possess  a  gay  or  a  gentle  grace.  As  the 
Civil  War  deepened,  the  special  court  poetry  died,  and  the 
songs  became  songs  of  battle  and  marching,  and  devoted  and 
violent  loyalty.  These  have  been  lately  collected  under  the 
title  of  Songs  of  the  Cavaliers. 

Satirical  Poetry,  always  arising  when  natural  passion  in 
poetry  decays,  is  represented  in  the  later  days  of  Elizabeth  by 
Joseph  Hall,  afterwards  Bishop  Hall,  whose  Virgidemiarum, 
1597,  satires  partly  in  poetry,  make  him  the  master  satirist  of 
this  time.  John  Donne,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  who  also  partly 
belongs  to  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  was,  with  John  Cleveland  (a 
furious  royalist  and  satirist  of  Charles  I.'s  time),  the  most  ob- 


Poetry — Lyric,  Rural,  and  Religious,        163 

scure  and  fanciful  of  the  poets  absurdly  called  Metaphysical. 
Donne,  however,  rose  far  above  the  rest  in  the  beauty  of 
thought,  and  in  the  tenderness  of  his  religious  and  love  poems. 
His  satires  are  graphic  pictures  of  the  manners  of  the  age  of 
James  I.  George  Wither  hit  the  follies  and  vices  of  the  day 
so  hard  in  his  Abuses  Stript  and  Wliipt,  1613,  that  he  was  put 
into  the  Marshalsea  prison,  where  he  continued  his  satires  in  the 
Shepherd'' s  Hunting.  As  the  Puritan  and  the  Royalist  became 
more  opposed  to  one  another,  satirical  poetry  naturally  became 
more  bitter;  but,  like  the  poetry  of  the  Civil  War,  it  took 
the  form  of  short  songs  and  pieces  which  went  about  the 
country,  as  those  of  Bishop  Corbet  did,  in  manuscript. 

The  Rural  Poetry. — 11\\q  pastoral  now  began  to  take  a 
more  truly  rural  form  than  the  conventional  pastorals  of 
France  and  Italy,  out  of  which  it  rose.  In  William  Browke's 
Britannia^s  Pastorals,  1616,  the  element  of  pleasure  in  coun- 
try life  arises,  and  from  this  time  it  begins  to  grow  in  our 
poetry.  It  appears  slightly  in  Wither's  Shepherd^ s  Hunting, 
but  plainly  in  his  Mistress  of  Philarete,  a  poem  interspersed 
with  lyrics.  In  dwelling  so  much  as  he  did  on  the  beauty  of 
natural  scenery  away  from  cities,  he  brings  a  new  element  into 
English  verse.  Henceforth  we  always  find  a  country  poetry 
set  over  against  a  town  poetry,  a  poetry  of  nature  set  over 
against  a  poetry  of  man. 

It  is  still  stronger  in  Andrev^t  Marvell,  Milton's  secretary, 
who,  with  the  exception  of  Milton,  did  the  finest  work  of  this 
kind.  In  imaginative  intensity,  in  the  fusing  together  of 
personal  feeling  and  thought  with  the  delight  received  from 
nature,  his  verses  on  Tlie  Emigrants  in  the  Bermudas  and  Tlie 
Thoughts  in  a  Garden,  and  the  little  poem,  Tlie  Girl  describes 
her  Fawn,  are  like  the  work  of  Wordsworth  on  one  side,  and 
like  the  best  Elizabethan  work  on  the  other.  They  are  the  last 
and  the  truest  echo  of  the  lyrics  of  the  time  of  Elizabeth, 
but  they  reach  beyond  them  in  the  love  of  nature. 

Spenseeians. — Among  these  broken  up  forms  of  poetry, 


164         Literature  of  Period   F.,  1603-1660. 

there  was  one  kind  which  was  imitative  of  Spenser.  PniisfEAS 
Fletcher,  Giles  Fletcher,  Henry  More  in  his  Platonical 
Song  of  the  Soul,  1642,  and  Johk  Chalkhill  in  his  Thealma, 
owned  him  as  their  master.  The  Purple  Island,  1633,  of  the 
first,  an  ehiborate  allegory  of  the  body  and  mind  of  man,  has 
some  grace  and  sweetness,  and  tells  us  that  the  scientific  ele- 
ment, which  after  the  Eestoration  took  form  in  the  setting  up 
of  the  Royal  Society,  was  so  far  spread  in  England  at  his  time 
as  to  influence  the  poets. 

Religious  Poetry. — The  Temptation  and  Victory  of  Christ, 
1610,  of  Giles  Fletcher,  is  a  lovely  poem  and  gave  hints  to 
Milton  for  the  Paradise  Regained.  It  is  one  of  the  many  re- 
ligious poems  that  now  began  to  interest  the  people.  Of  these 
The  Temple,  1631,  of  George  Herbert,  rector  of  Bemer- 
ton,  has  been  the  most  popular.  The  purity  and  profound 
devotion  of  its  poetry  have  made  it  dear  to  all.  Its  gentle 
Church  feeling  has  pleased  all  classes  of  churchmen  ;  its  great 
quaintness,  which  removes  it  from  true  poetry,  has  added 
perhaps  to  its  charm.  With  him  we  must  rank  Hei^ry 
Vaughai^,  the  Silurist,  whose  Sacred  Poems  are  equally  de- 
votional, pure,  and  quaint,  and  Fran^cis  "Quarles,  whose 
Divine  Emhlems,  1635,  is  still  read  in  the  cottages  of  England. 

On  the  Roman  Catholic  side,  William  Habikgton  min- 
gled his  devotion  to  his  religion  with  the  praises  of  his  wife, 
under  the  name  of  Castara,  1634 ;  and  Richard  Crashaw, 
whose  rich  inventiveness  was  not  made  less  rich  by  the  religious 
mysticism  which  finally  led  him  to  become  a  Roman  Catholic, 
published  his  Steps  to  the  Temple  in  1646.  On  the  Puritan 
side,  we  may  now  place  George  Wither,  whose  Hallelujah, 
1641,  a  series  of  religious  poems,  was  sent  forth  just  before 
the  Civil  War  began,  when  he  left  the  king's  side  to  support 
the  Parliament.  Finally,  religious  poetry,  after  the  return  of 
Charles  II.,  passed  on  through  the  Davideis  of  Abraham 
Cowley,  and  the  Divine  Love  of  Edmund  Waller  to  find  its 
highest  expression  in  the  Paradise  Lost. 


Poetry  and  Prose — Milton  and  Bunyan.    165 

We  have  thus  traced  through  all  its  forms  the  decline  of 
poetry.  It  is  a  poetry  often  beautiful,  but  as  often  injured 
by  obscurity,  over-fancifulness,  confusion  of  thought  and  of 
images.  From  this  decay  we  pass  into  a  new  world  when 
we  come  to  speak  of  Milton.  Between  the  dying  poetry  of 
the  past,  and  the  uprising  of  a  new  kind  in  Dryden,  stands 
alone  the  majestic  work  of  a  great  genius  who  touches  the 
Elizabethan  time  with  one  hand  and  our  own  time  with  the 
other." 

Bibliography.  Herbert  and  Donne.— Ward's  Anthology;  Mrs.  Thompson's 
Celebrated  Friendships;  S,  Brown's  Lectures  and  Essays  ;  Walton's  Lives  of  Her 
bert,  Donne,  etc;  Eel.  Mag.,  v.  32,  1854, 

Lesson  31. 

John  Milton. — ''  Milton  was  the  last  of  the  Elizabethans, 
and,  except  Shakespeare,  far  the  greatest  of  them  all.  Born 
in  1608,  in  Bread-street,  he  may  have  seen  Shakespeare,  for 
Milton  remained  in  London  till  he  was  sixteen. 

His  literary  life  may  be  said  to  begin  with  his  entrance  into 
Cambridge,  in  1625,  the  year  of  the  accession  of  Charles  I. 
Nicknamed  the  ^  lady '  from  his  beauty  and  delicate  taste  and 
morality,  he  got  soon  a  great  fame,  and  during  the  seven  years 
of  his  life  at  the  university  his  poetic  genius  opened  itself  in 
the  English  poems  of  which  I  give  the  dates.  On  the  Death  of 
a  Fair  Infant,  1626.  At  a  Vacation  Exercise,  1628.  On  the 
Morning  of  Chrisf  s  Nativity ,  1629.  On  the  Circumcisio7i,  The 
Passion,  Time,  At  a  Solemn  Miisich,  On  the  May  Mor7iing, 
On  Shahespeare,  1630.  On  the  University  Carrier,  Epitaph 
on  Marchioness  of  Worcester,  Sonnet  1.,  To  the  Nightingale, 
Sonnet  2.,  On  Arriving  at  Age  of  Twenty-three,  1631.  The 
last  sonnet,  when  explained  by  a  letter  that  accompanied  it, 
shows  that  Milton,  influenced  by  the  sufferings  of  the  Puri- 
tans, had  given  up  his  intention  of  becoming  a  clergyman. 

He  left,  therefore,  the  university  in  1632,  and  went  to  live  at 
Horton,  near  Windsor,  where  he  spent  five  years,  steadily 


106  Literature  of  Period  F.,  1603-1660. 


reading  the  Greek  and  Latin  writers,  and  amusing  himself 
with  mathematics  and  music.  Poetry  was  not  neglected. 
The  L' Allegro  and  II  Penseroso  were  written  in  1632,  and 
probably  the  Arcades;  Comus  in  1634,  and  Lycidas  in  1637. 
They  all  prove  that,  though  Milton  was  Puritan  in  heart,  his 
Puritanism  was  of  that  earlier  type  which  neither  disdained 
literature,  art,  or  gaiety  nor  despised  the  ancient  Church  nor 
turned  away  from  natural  beauty.  He  could  still  enjoy  the 
village  dance,  the  masque,  the  lists,  the  music  in  the  dim 
Cathedral;  he  could  still  mingle  the  learning  of  the  Renais- 
sance with  his  delight  in  the  fields  and  flowers,  with  his  feast- 
ing and  his  grief.  He  was  as  much  the  child  of  the  New 
Learning  as  Spenser  was,  but  his  Puritanism  was  set  deeper 
than  Spenser's. 

In  1638  he  went  to  Italy,  the  second  home  of  so  many  of 
the  English  j^oets,  and  visited  the  great  towns,  making  friends 
111  Florence,  where  he  saw  Galileo,  and  in  Rome.  At  Naples 
he  heard  the  sad  news  of  civil  war,  which  determined  him  to 
return;  inasmuch  as  I  thought  it  base  to  be  travelling  at  my 
ease  for  intellectual  culture,  while  my  fellow-countrymen  at 
home  were  fighting  for  liberty.'  But,  hearing  that  the  war 
had  not  yet  arisen,  he  remained  in  Italy  till  the  end  of  1639, 
and  at  the  meeting  of  the  Long  Parliament  we  find  him  in  a 
house  in  Aldersgate,  where  he  lived  till  1645.  He  had  pro- 
jected, while  abroad,  a  great  epic  poem  on  the  subject  of 
Arthur  (again  the  Welsh  subject  returns),  but  in  London  his 
mind  changed,  and  among  a  number  of  subjects,  tended  at 
last  to  Paradise  Lost,  which  he  meant  to  throw  into  the  form 
of  a  Greek  Tragedy  with  lyrics  and  choruses. 

Milton's  Prose.  The  Commonwealth.  —  Suddenly  his 
whole  life  changed,  and  for  twenty  years,  1640-1660,  he  was 
carried  out  of  art  into  politics,  out  of  poetry  into  prose.  Be- 
fore 1642,  when  the  Civil  War  began,  he  had  written  five 
vigorous  pamphlets  against  episcopacy.  Six  more  pamphlets 
appeared  in  the  next  two  years.     One  of  these  was  the  AreO' 


Poetry  and  Prose — Milton  and  Bunyan,    167 

pagitica,  or  Speech  for  the  Liberty  of  Unlicensed  Printing, 
1644,  a  bold  and  eloquent  attack  on  the  censorship  of  the 
press  by  the  Presbyterians.  The  four  pamphlets  in  which  he 
advocated  conditional  divorce  made  him  still  more  the  horror 
of  the  Presbyterians.  When,  on  the  execution  of  the  king, 
1649,  England  became  a  republic,  Milton  defended  the  act  in 
an  answer  to  the  Eikon  Basilikey  a  portraiture  of  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  king  by  Dr.  Gauden,  and  continued  to  defend  it 
in  his  famous  Latin  Defence  for  the  People  of  England,  1G51, 
in  which  he  inflicted  so  pitiless  a  lashing  on  Salmasius,  the 
great  Leyden  scholar,  that  his  fame  went  over  the  whole  of 
Europe.  In  the  next  year  he  wholly  lost  his  sight.  But  he 
continued  his  work  when  Cromwell  was  made  Protector,  and 
wrote  another  Defence  for  the  E7iglish  People,  and  a  further 
defence  of  himself  against  scurrilous  charges.  This  closed 
the  controversy  in  1655. 

In  the  last  year  of  the  Protector's  life  he  began  the  Para- 
dise Lost,  about  the  date  of  the  last  of  his  sonnets.  The  two 
years  that  came  before  the  Restoration  were  employed  in  a 
fruitless  effort  to  prevent  it  by  the  publication  of  six  more 
pamphlets.  It  was  a  wonder  he  was  not  put  to  death,  and  he 
was  in  hiding  and  in  custody  for  a  time.  At  last  he  settled 
in  a  house  near  Bunhill  Fields.  It  was  here  that  Paradise 
Lost  was  finished,  before  the  end  of  1665,  and  then  published 
in  1667." 

* '  One  virtue  these  pamphlets  possess — the  virtue  of  style.  They  are 
monuments  of  our  language  so  remarkable  that  Milton's  prose  works 
must  always  be  resorted  to  by  students  as  long  as  English  remains  a 
medium  of  ideas,  Puttmg  Bacon  aside,  the  condensed  force  and  poig- 
nant brevity  of  whose  aphoristic  wisdom  has  no  parallel  in  English, 
there  is  no  other  prosaist  who  possesses  anything  like  Milton's  command 
over  the  resources  of  our  language.  Neither  Hooker  nor  Jeren>y  Taylor 
impresses  the  reader  with  a  sense  of  unlimited  power  such  as  we  feel 
to  reside  in  Milton.  Vast  as  is  the  wealth  of  magnificent  words  which 
he  flings  with  both  hands  carelessly  upon  the  page,  we  feel  that  there  is 
still  much  more  in  reserve. 


168  Literature  of  Period  V.,  1603-1660. 

Yet  even  oa  the  score  of  style,  Milton's  prose  is  subject  to  serious  de- 
ductions. His  negligence  is  such  as  to  amount  to  an  absence  of  con- 
struction. He  who  in  his  verse  trained  the  sentence  with  delicate  sen- 
sibility to  follow  his  guiding  hand  into  exquisite  syntax  seems  in  his 
prose  writing  to  abandon  his  meaning  to  shift  for  itself.  Here  Milton 
compares  disadvantageously  with  Hooker.  Hooker's  elaborate  sentence, 
like  the  sentence  of  Demosthenes,  is  composed  of  facts  so  hinged,  of 
clauses  so  subordinated  to  the  main  thought,  that  we  foresee  the  end 
from  the  beginning,  and  close  the  period  with  a  sense  of  perfect  round- 
ness and  totality.  Milton  does  not  seem  to  have  any  notion  of  what  a 
period  means.  He  begins  anywhere  and  leaves  off,  not  when  the  sense 
closes,  but  when  he  is  out  of  breath.  We  might  have  thought  this  pell- 
mell  huddle  of  his  words  was  explained,  if  not  excused,  by  tlie  exigen- 
cies of  the  party  pamphlet,  which  cannot  wait.  But  the  same  asyntactic 
disorder  is  equally  found  in  the  History  of  Britain,  which  he  had  in 
hand  for  forty  years.  Nor  is  it  only  the  Miltonic  sentence  which  is  in- 
coherent, the  whole  arrangement  of  his  topics  is  equally  loose,  disjointed, 
and  desultory. 

Many  of  Milton's  pamphlets  are  certainly  party  pleadings,  choleric, 
one-sided,  personal.  But  through  them  all  runs  the  one  redeeming  char 
acteristic — they  are  all  written  on  the  side  of  liberty.  He  defended  re- 
ligious liberty  against  the  prelates,  civil  liberty  against  the  crown,  the 
liberty  of  the  press  against  the  executive,  liberty  of  conscience  against 
the  Presbyterians,  and  domestic  liberty  against  the  tyranny  of  canon 
law." — Mark  Pattison. 

Pahadise  Lost. — '^  We  may  perhaps  regret  that  Milton  was 
shut  away  from  his  art  for  twenty  years,  during  which  no  verse 
was  written  but  the  sonnets.  But  it  may  be  that  the  poems' 
he  wrote,  when  the  great  cause  he  fought  for  had  closed  in 
seeming  defeat  but  real  victory,  gained  from  its  solemn  issues 
and  from  the  moral  grandeur  with  which  he  wrought  for  its 
ends  their  majestic  movement,  their  grand  style,  and  their 
grave  beauty.  During  the  struggle  he  had  never  forgotten 
his  art.  '  I  may  one  day  hope,'  he  said,  speaking  of  his  youth- 
ful studies,  '  to  have  ye  again,  in  a  still  time,  when  there  shall 
be  no  chiding;  not  in  these  ]S"oises,'  and  the  saying  strikes 
the  note  of  calm  sublimity  which  is  kept  in  Paradise  Lost. 

It  opens  with  the  awaking  of  the  rebel  angels  in  hell  after 


Poetry  and  Prose — Milton  and  Bunyan.    169 

their  fall  from  heaven,  the  consultation  of  their  chiefs  how 
best  to  carry  on  the  war  with  God,  and  the  resolve  of  Satan 
to  go  forth  and  tempt  newly  created  man  to  fall.  He  takes 
his  flight  to  the  earth  and  finds  Eden.  Eden  is  then  de- 
scribed, and  Adam  and  Eve  in  their  innocence.  The  next 
four  books,  from  the  fifth  to  the  eighth,  contain  the  Arcli- 
angel  Raphael's  story  of  the  war  in  heaven,  the  fall  of  Satan, 
and  the  creation  of  the  world.  The  last  four  books  describe 
the  temptation  and  the  fall  of  Man,  the  vision  shown  by 
Michael  to  Adam  of  the  future  and  of  the  redemption  of  Man 
by  Christ,  and  the  expulsion  from  Paradise. 

The  beauty  of  the  poem  is  rather  that  of  ideal  purity,  and 
of  sublime  thought  expressed  in  language  which  has  the  severe 
loveliness  of  the  best  Greek  sculpture.  The  interest  collects 
round  the  character  of  Satan  at  first,  but  he  grows  more  and 
more  mean  as  the  poem  goes  on,  and  seems  to  fall  a  second 
time,  to  lose  all  his  original  brightness,  after  his  temptation 
of  Eve.  Indeed  this  second  degradation  of  Satan  after  he 
has  not  only  sinned  himself  but  made  innocence  sin,  and 
beaten  back  in  himself  the  last  remains  of  good,  is  one  of  the 
finest  motives  in  the  poem.  In  every  part  of  the  poem,  in 
every  character  in  it,  as  indeed  in  all  his  poems,  Milton's  in- 
tense individuality  appears.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  find  it.  The 
egotism  of  such  a  man,  said  Coleridge,  is  a  revelation  of 
spirit. " 

"  The  first  of  Englishmen  to  whom  the  designation  Men  of  Letters  is  ap- 
propriate, Milton  was  also  the  noblest  example  of  the  type.  He  cultivated 
not  letters  but  himself,  and  sought  to  enter  into  possession  of  his  own 
mental  kingdom  not  that  he  might  reign  there  but  that  he  might  royally 
use  its  resources  in  building  up  a  work  which  should  bring  honor  to  his 
country  and  his  native  tongue.  The  style  of  Paradise  Lost  is  then  only 
the  natural  expression  of  a  soul  thus  exquisitely  nourished  upon  the  best 
thoughts  and  finest  words  of  all  ages.  It  is  the  language  of  one  who 
lives  in  the  companionship  of  the  great  and  the  wise  of  past  time.  It  is 
inevitable  that  when  such  a  one  speaks,  his  tones,  his  accent,  the  melo- 
dies of  his  rhythm,  the  inner  harmonies  of  his  linked  thoughts,  the  grace 


170  Literature  of  Period   F.,  1603-1660. 

of  his  allusive  touch  should  escape  the  common  ear.  To  follow  Milton 
one  should  at  least  have  tasted  the  same  training  through  which  he  put 
himself.  The  many  cannot  see  it,  and  complain  that  the  poet  is  too 
learned. 

Whatever  conclusion  maybe  the  true  one  from  the  public  demand,  we 
cannot  be  wrong  in  asserting  that  from  the  first,  and  now  as  then,  Para- 
dise Lost  has  been  more  admired  than  read.  The  poet's  wish  and  expec- 
tation that  he  should  find  '  fit  audience  though  few '  has  been  fulfilled. 
Partly  this  has  been  due  to  his  limitation,  his  unsympathetic  disposition, 
the  deficiency  of  the  human  element  in  his  imagination,  and  his  presen- 
tation of  mythical  instead  of  real  beings.  But  it  is  also,  in  part,  a  tribute 
to  his  excellence,  and  it  is  to  be  ascribed  to  the  lofty  strain  which  re- 
quires more  effort  to  accompany  than  an  average  reader  is  able  to  make, 
a  majestic  demeanor  which  no  parodist  has  been  able  to  degrade,  and  a 
wealth  of  allusion  demanding  more  literature  than  is  possessed  by  any 
but  the  few  whose  life  is  lived  with  the  poets.  An  appreciation  of  Mil- 
ton is  the  last  reward  of  consummated  scholarship." — Mark  Pattison. 

Milton's  Later  Poems.— "It  was  followed  by  Paradise 
Regained  and  Safnson  Agonistes,  published  together  in  1671. 
Paradise  Regained  opens  with  the  journey  of  Christ  into  the 
wilderness  after  his  baptism,  and  its  four  books  describe  the 
temptation  of  Christ  by  Satan,  and  the  answers  and  victory 
of  the  Redeemer.  The  speeches  in  it  drown  the  action,  and 
their  learned  argument  is  only  relieved  by  a  few  descriptions; 
but  these,  as  in  that  of  Athens,  are  done  with  Milton's  high- 
est power.  The  same  solemn  beauty  of  a  quiet  mind  and  a 
more  severe  style  than  that  of  Paradise  Lost  make  us  feel  in 
it  that  Milton  has  grown  older. 

In  Samson  Agonistes,  the  style  is  still  severer,  even  to  the 
verge  of  a  harshness  which  the  sublimity  alone  tends  to 
modify.  It  is  a  choral  drama,  after  the  Greek  model.  Sam- 
son in  his  blindness  is  described,  is  called  on  to  make  sport 
for  the  Philistines,  and  overthrows  them  in  the  end.  Samson 
represents  the  fallen  Puritan  cause,  and  his  victorious  death 
Milton's  hopes  for  its  final  triumph.  The  poem  has  all  the 
grandeur  of  the  last  words  of  a  great  man  in  whom  there  was 
now  'calm  of  mind,  all  passion  spent.'    He  wrote  it  blind 


Poetry  and  Prose — Milton  and  Bunyan.    171 

and  old  and  fallen  on  evil  days.  But  in  it,  as  in  the  others, 
blindness  did  not  jjrevent  sight.  No  man  saw  more  vividly 
and  could  say  more  vividly  what  he  saw.  Nor  did  age  make 
him  lose  strength.  The  force  of  thought  and  verse  in  his 
last  poem  is  only  less  than  in  Paradise  Lost.  Nor  did  evil 
days  touch  his  imagination  with  weakness,  or  make  less  the 
dignity  of  his  art.     Till  the  end  it  was 

*  An  undisturbed  song  of  pure  concent, 
Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire- colored  throne, 
To  Him  that  sits  thereon.' 

It  ended  in  his  death,  November,  1674. 

His  Woek. — To  the  greatness  of  the  artist,  Milton  joined 
the  majesty  of  a  pure  and  lofty  character.  His  poetic  style 
was  as  lofty  as  his  character,  and  proceeded  from  it.  Living 
at  a  time  when  criticism  began  to  purify  the  verse  of  England, 
and  being  himself  well  acquainted  with  the  great  classical 
models,  his  work  is  free  from  the  false  conceits  and  the  m tem- 
perance of  the  Elizabethan  writers,  and  yet  is  as  imaginative 
as  theirs,  and  as  various.  He  has  their  grace,  naturalness, 
and  intensity,  when  he  chooses,  and  he  adds  to  it  a  sublime  dig- 
nity which  they  did  not  possess.  All  the  kinds  of  poetry 
which  he  touched  he  touched  with  the  ease  of  great  strength, 
and  with  so  much  weight  that  they  became  new  in  his  hands. 
He  put  a  new  life  into  the  masque,  the  sonnet,  the  elegy,  the 
descriptive  lyric,  the  song,  the  choral  drama;  and  he  created 
the  epic  in  England.  The  lighter  love  poem  he  never  wrote, 
and  he  kept  satire  for  prose. 

In  some  points  he  was  untrue  to  his  descent  from  the  Eliz- 
abethans, for  he  had  no  dramatic  faculty  and  he  had  no 
humor.  He  summed  up  in  himself  all  the  higher  influences 
of  the  Renaissance,  and,  when  they  had  died  in  England,  re- 
vived and  handed  them  to  us.  His  taste  was  as  severe,  his 
verse  as  polished,  his  method  and  language  as  strict  as  those 
of  the  school  of  Dryden  and  Pope  that  grew  up  when  he  was 


172  Literature  of  Period  V.,  1603-1660. 

old.  A  literary  past  and  present  thus  met  in  him,  and,  like  all 
the  greatest  men,  he  did  not  fail  to  make  a  east  into  the  future. 
He  began  that  pure  poetry  of  natural  description  which  has 
no  higher  exam^Dles  to  show  in  Wordsworth  or  Scott  or  Keats 
than  his  L' Allegro  and  II  Penseroso.  Lastly,  he  did  not 
represent  in  any  way  the  England  that  followed  the  tyranny, 
the  coarseness,  the  sensuality,  the  falseness,  or  the  irreligion 
of  the  Stuarts,  but  he  did  represent  Puritan  England,  and  the 
Avhole  career  of  Puritanism  from  its  cradle  to.  its  grave. 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress.— With  Milton  the  great  Elizabeth- 
an age  of  imaginative  poetry  and  the  spirit  of  the  New  Learn- 
ing said  their  last  word.  We  might  say  that  Puritanism  also 
said  its  last  great  words  with  him,  were  it  not  that  its  spirit 
lasted  in  English  life,  were  it  not  also  that  four  years  after  his 
death,  in  1678,  John"  Bui^yan",  who  had  previously  written 
much,  published  the  Pilgrim'' s  Progress.  It  is  the  journey 
of  Christian,  the  Pilgrim,  from  the  City  of  Destruction  to  the 
Celestial  City.  The  second  part  was  published  in  1684,  and  in 
1682  the  allegory  of  the  ffolg  War. 

I  class  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  here,  because,  in  its  imagina- 
tive fervor  and  poetry  and  in  its  quality  of  naturalness,  it 
belongs  to  the  spirit  of  the  Elizabethan  times.  It  belongs  also 
to  that  time  in  this,  that  its  simple  and  clear  form  grew  up  out 
of  passionate  feeling  and  not  out  of  self-conscious  art.  It  is  the 
people's  book  and  not  the  book  of  a  literary  class,  and  yet  it 
lives  in  literature,  because  it  first  revealed  the  poetry  which 
fervent  belief  in  a  spiritual  world  can  kindle  in  the  rudest 
hearts.  In  doing  this,  and  in  painting  the  various  changes 
and  feelings  of  the  pilgrim's  progress  towards  God,  the  book 
touched  the  deepest  human  interests,  and  set  on  foot  a  new 
and  plentiful  literature.  Its  language  is  the  language  of  the 
Bible.  It  is  a  prose  allegory  conceived  as  an  epic  poem.  As 
such  it  admits  the  vivid  dramatic  dialogue,  the  episodes,  the 
descriptions,  and  the  clear  drawing  of  types  of  character  which 


Poetry  and  Prose — Milton  and  Bunyan.     173 

give  a  different,  but  an  equal,  pleasure  to  a  peasant  boy  and  to 
an  intellect  like  Lord  Macaulay's." 

"  Scliolars  of  wide  and  critical  acquaintance  with  literature  are  often 
unable  to  acquire  an  acceptably  good,  not  to  say  an  admirable,  style ;  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  men  who  can  read  only  their  own  language,  and  who 
have  received  little  instruction  even  in  that,  of  ten  write  and  speak  in  a  style 
that  wins  or  commands  attention,  and  in  itself  gives  pleasure.  Of  these 
men  John  Bunyan  is,  perhaps,  the  most  marked  example.  Better  Eng- 
lish there  could  hardly  be,  or  a  style  more  admirable  for  every  excellence, 
than  appears  throughout  the  writings  of  that  tinker.  No  person  who 
has  read  TJie  Pilgrim's  Progress  can  have  forgotten  the  fight  of  Christian 
with  Apollyon,  which,  for  vividness  of  description  and  dramatic  interest, 
puts  to  shame  all  the  combats  with  knights  and  giants  and  men  and  drag- 
ons that  can  be  found  elsewhere  in  romance  or  poetry;  but  there  are 
probably  many  who  do  not  remember,  and  not  a  few,  perhaps,  who, 
in  the  very  enjoyment  of  it,  did  not  notice,  the  clearness,  the  spirit, 
the  strength,  and  the  simple  beauty  of  the  style  in  which  that  passage  is 
written.  For  example,  take  the  sentence  which  tells  of  the  beginning 
of  the  tight : — 

'  Then  Apollyon  straddled  quite  over  the  whole  breadth  of  the  way, 
and  said,  I  am  void  of  fear  in  this  matter ;  prepare  thyself  to  die ;  for  I 
swear  by  my  infernal  Den  that  thou  shalt  go  no  further:  here  will  I  spill 
thy  soul. ' 

A  man  cannot  be  taught  to  write  like,  that,  nor  can  he  by  any  study 
learn  the  mystery  of  such  a  style."— i2.  O.  White. 

Bibliography  .  Milton.— D.  Masson's  Life  of;  English  Men  of  Letters  Series ;  W. 
E.  Channing's  Char,  and  Writings  of;  De  Quincey's  Essays;  S.  Johnson's  Lives 
of  Eng.  Poets;  R.  W.  Emerson  in  Characteristics  of  Men  of  Gen.;  Macaulay's 
Essays;  Brydges'  Imaginative  Biography;  P.  Bayne's  Essays;  W.  Hazlitt's  Son- 
nets of;  F.  D.  Maurice's  Friendship  of  Books;  J.  R.  Seeley's  Politics  and  Poetry  of, 
in  his  Rom.  Imperialism;  Addison's  Essays  in  Spectator,  published  in  pamphlet; 
Ward's  Anthology;  Lowell's  Among  my  Boohs,  2d  Ser. ;  Eel.  Mag.,  Nov.,  1849;  Apr., 
1852;  and  Nov.,  1853. 

Bunyan.— ^ngr.  Men  of  Let.  Series;  J.  TuUoch's  Eng.  PuHtanism  and  its 
Leaders;  Macaulay's  Essays:  J.  Baillie's  Life  Studies;  Eel.  Mag.,  July,  1851;  and 
May,  1852. 


174         Literature  of  Period  Y.,  1603-1660. 


Lesson  32. 

From  Milton's  Areopagitica. 

Truth  indeed  came  once  into  the  world  with  her  divine  Master,  and 
was  a  perfect  shape,  most  glorious  to  look  on ;  but,  when  he  ascended, 
and  his  apostles  after  him  were  laid  asleep,  then  straight  arose  a  wicked 
race  of  deceivers,  who,  as  that  story  goes  of  the  Egyptian  Typhon^  with 
his  conspirators,  how  they  dealt  with  the  good  Osiris,  took  the  virgin 
Truth,  hewed  her  lovely  form  into  a  thousand  pieces,  and  scattered 
them  to  the  four  winds.  From  that  time  ever  since,  the  sad  friends  of 
truth,  such  as  durst  appear,  imitating  the  careful  search  that  Isis^ 
made  for  the  mangled  body  of  Osiris,  went  up  and  down  gathering  up 
limb  by  limb  still  as  they  could  find  them.  We  have  not  yet  found 
them  all,  Lords  and  Commons, ^  nor  ever  shall  do  till  her  Master's 
second  coming;  he  shall  bring  together  every  joint  and  member,  and 
shall  mould  them  into  an  immortal  feature  of  loveliness  and  perfection. 
Suffer  not  these  licensing  prohibitions'*  to  stand  at  every  place  of  oppor- 
tunity, forbidding  and  disturbing  them  that  continue  seeking,  that  con- 
tinue to  do  our  obsequies  to  the  torn  body  of  our  martyred  saint. 

We  boast  our  light ;  but,  if  we  look  not  wisely  on  the  sun  itself,  it  smites 
us  into  darkness.  Who  can  discern  those  planets  that  are  oft  combust, ^ 
and  those  stars  of  brightest  magnitude  that  rise  and  set  with  the  sun, 
until  the  opposite  motion  of  their  orbs  brings  them  to  such  a  place  in 
the  firmament  where  they  may  be  seen  evening  or  morjiing?  The  light 
which  we  have  gained  was  given  us  not  to  be  ever  staring  on,  but  by^  it 
to  discover  onward  things  more  remote  from  our  knowledge.  It  is  not 
the  unfrocking  of  a  priest,  the  unmitring  of  a  bishop  and  the  removing 
him  from  off  the  Presbyterian  shoulders  that  will  make  us  a  happy 
nation;  no,  if  other  things  as  great  in  the  church  and  in  the  rule  of  life, 
both  economical  and  political,  be  not  looked  into  and  reformed,  we  have 
looked  so  long  upon  the  blaze  that  Zwinglius^  and  Calvin^  hath  beaconed 
up  to  us  that  we  are  stark  blind. 

There  be  who  perpetually  complain  of  schisms  and  sects,  and  make 
it  such  a  calamity  that  any  man  dissents  from  their  maxims.  'Tis  their 
own  pride  and  ignorance  which  causes  the  disturbing,  who  neither  will 

1  Brother  to  the  Egyptian  god  Osiris,  who  was, venerated  under  the  form  of  a 
bull,  whom  Typhon  killed,  and  whose  body  he  cut  into  twenty-six  pieces.  2  Sister 
and  spouse  of  Osiris.  ^  The  pamphlet  was  addressed  to  Parliament.  *  An  official 
license  was  needed  for  the  pubUcation  of  any  book.  *  Burning.  »  Reformers— the 
one  a  Swiss,  the  other  a  Frenchman. 


Prose — Milton^  s.  1'75 


hear  with  meekness  nor  can  convince,  yet  all  must  be  suppressed  which 
is  not  found  in  their  syntagma.'^  They  are  the  troublers,  they  are  the 
dividers  of  unity  who  neglect  and  permit  not  others  to  unite  those 
dissevered  pieces  which  are  yet  wanting  to  the  body  of  truth.  To  be 
still  searching  what  we  know  not  by  what  we  know,  still  closing  up 
truth  to  truth  as  we  find  it— for  all  her  body  is  homogeneal  and  propor- 
tional—this is  the  golden  rule  in  theology  as  well  as  in  arithmetic,  and 
makes  up  the  best  harmony  in  a  church;  not  the  forced  and  putward 
union  of  cold  and  neutral  and  inwardly  divided  minds. 

Behold  now  this  vast  City,  "-^  a  city  of  refuge,  the  mansion  house  of 
liberty,  encompassed  and  surrounded  with  God's  protection ;  the  shop 
of  war  hath  not  there  more  anvils  and  hammers  waking  to  fashion 
out  the  plates  and  instruments  of  armed  justice  in  defence  of  beleagured 
truth  than  there  be  pens  and  heads  there,  sitting  by  their  studious 
lamps,  musing,  searching,  revolving  new  notions  and  ideas  wiiere- 
with  to  present,  as  with  their  homage  and  their  fealty,  the  approaching 
reformation;  others  as  fast  reading,  trying  all  things,  assenting  to  the 
force  of  reason  and  convincement.  What  could  a  man  require  more 
from  a  nation  so  pliant  and  so  prone  to  seek  after  knowledge?  What 
wants  there  to  such  a  towardly^  and  pregnant  soil  but  wise  and  faith- 
ful laborers  to  make  a  knowing  people,  a  nation  of  prophets,  of  sages, 
and  of  worthies?  We  reckon  more  than  five  months  yet  to  harvest; 
there  need  not  be  five  weeks;  had  we  but  eyes  to  lift  up,  the  fields  are 
white  already. 

Where  there  is  much  desire  to  learn,  there  of  necessity  will  be  much 
arguing,  much  writing,  many  opinions;  for  opinion  in  good  men  is  but 
knowledge  in  the  making.  A  little  generous  prudence,  a  little  forbear- 
ance of  one  another,  and  some  grain  of  charity  might  win  all  these  dili- 
gences to  join  and  unite  in  one  general  and  brotherly  search  after  truth. 
I  doubt  not,  if  some  great  and  worthy  stranger  should  come  among  us, 
wise  to  discern  the  mould  and  temper  of  a  people  and  how  to  govern  it, 
observing  the  high  hopes  and  aims,  the  diligent  alacrity  of  our  extended 
thoughts  and  reasonings  in  the  pursuance  of  truth  and  freedom,  but 
that  he  would  cry  out  as  Pirrhus'*  did,  admiring  the  Koman  docility  and 
courage.  If  such  were  my  Epirots,  I  would  not  despair  the  greatest 
design  that  could  be  attempted  to  make  a  church  or  kingdom  happy. 

Yet  these  are  the  men  cried  out  against  for  schismatics  and  sectaries; 
as  if,  while  the  temple  of  the  Lord  was  building,  some  cutting,  some 


1  Works.     '  London.    »  Favoring.    *  King  of  Epirus,  invited  into  Italy  to  aid  the 
Tarentines  against  Eome. 


176  Literature  of  Period   K,  1603-1660. 

squaring  the  marble,  others  jiewing  the  cedars,  there  should  be  a  sort  of 
h-ratioual  men  who  could  not  consider  there  must  be  many  schisms  and 
many  dissections  made  in  the  quarry  and  in  the  timber  ere  the  house  of 
God  can  be  built.  And  when  every  stone  is  laid  artfully^  together,  it 
cannot  be  united  into  a  continuity,  it  can  but  be  contiguous  in  this 
world;  neither  can  every  piece  of  the  building  be  of  one  form;  nay 
rather  the  perfection  consists  in  this,  that  out  of  many  moderate  varieties 
and  brotherly  dissimilitudes,  that  are  not  vastly  disproportional,  arises 
the  goodly  and  the  graceful  symmetry  that  commends  the  whole  pile 

and  structure 

Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  Nation  rousing  her 
self  like  a  strong  man^  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks. 
Methinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle  mewing  her  mighty  youth,  and  kind- 
ling her  undazzled  eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam;  purging  and  unsealing 
her  long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of  heavenly  radiance,  while 
the  whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking  birds,  with  those  also  that  love 
the  twilight,  flutter  about  amazed  at  what  she  means,  and  in  their  envi- 
ous gabble  would  prognosticate  a  year  of  sects  and  schisms. 

From  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

I  beheld,  then,  that  they  all  went  on  till  they  came  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill  Difficulty,  at  the  bottom  of  which  was  a  spring.  There  were  also  in 
the  same  place  two  other  ways  besides  that  which  came  straight  from 
the  Gate;  one  turned  to  the  left  hand,  and  the  other  to  the  right,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill;  but  the  narrow  way  lay  right  up  the  hill;  and  the 
name  of  the  going  up  the  side  of  the  hill  is  called  Difficulty.  Christian 
now  went  to  the  spring,  and  drank  thereof  to  refresh  himself,  and  then 
he  began  to  go  up  the  hill. 

The  other  two  also  came  to  the  foot  of  the  hill;  but  when  they  saw 
that  the  hill  was  steep  and  high,  and  that  there  were  two  other  ways  to 
go,  and  supposing  also  that  these  two  ways  might  meet  again  with  that 
up  which  Christian  went,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  therefore  they  w^ere 
resolved  to  go  in  those  ways,  Now,  the  name  of  one  of  those  was  Dan- 
ger, and  the  name  of  the  other  Destruction.  So  the  one  took  the  w^ay 
which  is  called  Danger,  which  led  him  into  a  great  wood;  and  the  other 
took  directly  up  the  way  to  Destruction,  which  led  him  into  a  wide 
field,  full  of  dark  mountains,  where  he  stumbled  and  fell  and  rose  no 
more. 

I  looked  then  after  Christian  to  see  him  go  up  the  hill,  where  I  per- 
ceived he  fell  from  running  to  going,^  and  from  going  to  clambering 

1  With  art.  s  The  allusion  is  to  Samson.  »  Walking. 


Prose — BunyarC  s.  177 

upon  his  hands  and  his  knees,  because  of  the  steepness  of  the  place. 
Now,  about  the  mid-way  to  the  top  of  the  hill  was  a  pleasant  arbor,  made 
by  the  Lord  of  the  hill,  for  the  refreshment  of  weary  travellers;  thither, 
therefore,  Christian  got,  where  also  he  sat  down  to  rest  him.  Then  he 
pulled  his  Roll  out  of  his  bosom  and  read  therein  to  his  comfort;  he 
also  now  began  afresh  to  take  a  review  of  the  coat  or  garment  that 
was  given  to  him  as  he  stood  by  the  Cross.  Thus  pleasing  himself  a 
while,  he  at  last  fell  into  a  slumber,  and  thence  into  a  fast  sleep,  which 
detained  him  in  that  place  until  it  was  almost  night;  and  in  his  sleep 
his  Roll  fell  out  of  his  hand.  Now,  as  he  was  sleeping,  there  came  one 
to  him,  and  awaked  him,  saying,  "  Go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard,  con- 
sider her  ways,  and  be  wise;"  and  with  that,  Christian  suddenly  started 
up,  and  sped  him  on  his  way,  and  went  apace  till  he  came  to  the  top  of 
the  hill. 

Now,  when  he  was  got  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  there  came  two  men 
running  to  meet  him  amain;  the  name  of  the  one  was  Timorous,  and 
of  the  other  Mistrust ;  to  whom  Christian  said,  Sirs,  what's  the  matter? 
you  run  the  wrong  way.  Timorous  answered  that  they  were  going  to 
the  city  of  Zion,  and  had  got  up  that  diflacult  place;  but  said  he,  The 
farther  we  go,  the  more  danger  we  meet  with;  wherefore  we  turned, 
and  are  going  back  again. 

Yes,  said  Mistrust,  for  just  before  us  lie  a  couple  of  Lions  in  the 
way,  whether  sleeping  or  waking  we  know  not;  and  we  could  not  think, 
if  we  came  within  reach,  but  they  would  presently  pull  us  in  pieces. 

Then  said  Christian,  You  make  me  afraid;  but  whither  shall  I  flee 
to  be  safe?  If  I  go  back  to  my  own  country,  that -is  prepared  for  fire 
and  brimstone,  and  I  shall  certainly  perish  there;  if  I  can  get  to  the 
Celestial  City,  I  am  sure  to  be  in  safety  there.  I  must  vulture :  to  go 
back  is  nothing  but  death;  to  go  forward  is  fear  of  death,  and  life  ever- 
lasting beyond  it :  I  will  yet  go  forward.  So  Mistrust  and  Timorous  ran 
down  the  hill  and  Christian  went  on  his  way.  But,  thinking  again  of 
what  he  had  heard  from  the  men,  he  felt  in  his  bosom  for  his  Roll  that 
he  might  read  therein  and  be  comforted ;  but  he  felt  and  found  it  not. 
Then  was  Christian  in  great  distress,  and  knew  not  what  to  do;  for  he 
wanted  that  which  used  to  relieve  him,  and  that  which  sliould  have 
been  his  pass  into  the  Celestial  City.  Here,  therefore,  he  began  to  be 
much  perplexed,  and  knew  not  what  to  do:  at  last  he  bethought  himself 
that  he  had  slept  in  the  arbor  that  is  on  the  side  of  the  hill;  and,  falling 
down  upon  his  knees,  he  asked  God's  forgiveness  for  that  foolish  fact, 
and  then  went  back  to  look  for  his  Roll.  But  all  the  way  back  who  can 
sufficiently  set  forth  the  sorrow  of  Christian's  heart?  Sometimes 
hie  sighed,  sometimes  he  wept,  and  oftentimes   he   chid  himself  for 


178  Literature  of  Period   F.,  1603-1660. 

being  so  foolish  to  fall  asleep  in  that  place  which  was  erected  only 
for  a  little  refreshment  for  his  weariness.  Thus,  therefore,  he  went  back, 
carefully  looking  on  this  side  and  on  that,  all  the  way  as  he  went,  if  hap- 
pily he  might  find  his  Roll  that  had  been  his  comfort  so  many  times  in 
his  journe}^  He  went  thus  till  he  came  again  within  sight  of  the  arbor 
where  he  sat  and  slept;  but  that  sight  renewed  his  sorrow  the  more  by 
bringing  again,  even  afresh,  his  evil  of  sleeping  into  his  mind.  Thus, 
therefore,  he  now  went  on,  bewailing  his  sinful  sleep,  saying,  O 
wretched  man  that  I  am!  that  I  should  sleep  in  the  daytime!  that  I 
should  sleep  in  the  midst  of  difficulty!  that  I  should  so  indulge  the  flesh 
as  to  use  that  rest  for  ease  to  my  flesh  which  the  Lord  of  the  hill  hath 
erected  only  for  the  relief  of  the  spirits  of  pilgrims ! 

Now  by  this  time  he  was  come  to  the  arbor  again,  where  for  a  while 
he  sat  down  and  wept;  but  at  last,  looking  sorrowfully  down  under  the 
settle,  there  he  espied  his  Roll;  the  which  he  with  trembling  and  haste 
catched  up  and  put  into  his  bosom.  But  who  can  tell  how  joyful  this 
man  was  when  he  had  gotten  his  Roll  again!  for  this  Roll  was  the  as- 
surance of  his  life  and  acceptance  at  the  desired  haven.  Therefore  he 
laid  it  up  in  his  bosom,  gave  thanks  to  God  for  directing  his  eye  to  the 
place  where  it  lay,  and  with  joy  and  tears  betook  himself  again  to  his 
journey.  But  O  how  nimbly  did  he  go  up  the  rest  of  the  hill!  Yet,  be- 
fore he  got  up,  the  sun  went  down  upon  Christian;  and  this  made  him 
again  recall  the  vanity  of  his  sleeping  to  his  remembrance.  I  must  walk 
without  the  sun,  darkness  must  cover  the  path  of  my  feet,  and  J  must 
hear  the  noise  of  the  doleful  creatures  because  of  my  sinful  sleep!  Now 
also  he  remembered  the  story  that  Mistrust  and  Timorous  told  him,  of 
how  they  were  frighted  with  the  sight  of  the  Lions.  Then  said  Christian 
to  himself  again.  These  beasts  range  in  the  night  for  their  prey,  and  if 
they  should  meet  with  me  in  the  dark,  how  should  I  shift  them?  How 
should  I  escape  being  by  them  torn  in  pieces?  Thus  he  went  on;  but 
while  he  was  thus  bewailing  his  unhappy  miscarriage,  he  lift  up  his 
eyes,  and  behold  there  was  a  very  stately  palace  before  him,  the  name  of 
which  was  Beautiful;  and  it  stood  just  by  the  highway  side. 

So  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  he  made  haste  :*nd  went  forward  that,  if 
possible,  he  might  get  lodging  there.  Now,  before  he  had  gone  far,  he 
entered  into  a  very  narrow  passage  which  was  about  a  furlong  off  of  the 
porter's  lodge;  and,  looking  very  narrowly  before  him  as  he  went,  he 
espied  two  lions  in  the  way.  Then  he  was  afraid,  for  he  thought  noth- 
ing but  death  was  before  him ;  but  the  Porter  at  the  lodge,  whose  name 
is  Watchful,  perceiving  that  Christian  made  a  halt  as  if  he  would  go 
back,  cried  unto  him  saying,  Is  thy  strength  so  small?  Fear  not  the 
Lions,  for  they  are  chained,  and  are  placed  there  for  a  trial  of  faith 


Frose — Bunyan^s.  179 

where  it  is,  and  for  discovery  of  those  that  have  none;  keep  in  the 
midst  of  the  path,  and  no  hurt  shall  come  unto  thee. 

Then  I  saw  that  he  went  on,  trembling  for  fear  of  the  Lions ;  but,  tak- 
ing good  heed  to  the  directions  of  the  Porter,  lie  heard  them  roar,  but 
they  did  him  no  harm.  Then  he  clapped  his  hands,  and  went  on  till 
he  came  and  stood  before  the  gate  where  the  Porter  was.  Then  said 
Christian  to  the  Porter,  Sir,  what  house  is  this?  and  may  I  lodge  here 
to-night?  The  Porter  answered,  This  house  was  built  by  the  Lord 
of  the  hill,  and  he  built  it  for  the  relief  and  security  of  pilgrims.  Tbe 
Porter  also  asked  whence  he  was  and  whither  he  was  going. 

Chr.  I  am  come  from  the  city  of  Destruction,  and  am  going  to  Mount 
Zion ;  but,  because  the  sun  is  now  set,  I  desire,  if  I  may,  to  lodge  here 
to-night. 

For.  But  how  doth  it  happen  that  you  come  so  late?    The  sun  is  set. 

Chr.  I  had  been  here  sooner,  but  that,  wretched  man  that  I  am,  I 
slept  in  the  arbor  that  stands  on  the  hill-side.  Na}?",  I  had  notwith- 
standing that  been  here  much  sooner,  but  that  in  my  sleep  I  lost  my  Evi- 
dence, and  came  without  it  to  the  brow  of  the  hill;  and  then  feeling  for 
it  and  not  finding  it,  I  was  forced,  with  sorrow  of  heart,  to  go  back  to 
the  place  where  I  slept  my  sleep ;  where  I  found  it,  and  now  am  come. 

For.  Well,  I  will  call  out  one  of  the  Virgins  of  this  place  who  will, 
if  she  likes  your  talk,  bring  you  in  to  the' rest  of  the  family,  according  to 
the  rules  of  the  house.  So  Watchful,  the  Porter,  rang  a  bell,  at  the 
sound  of  which  came  out  of  the  door  of  the  house  a  grave  and  beautiful 
damsel,  named  Discretion,  and  asked  why  she  was  called. 

The  Porter  answered,  This  man  is  on  a  journey  from  the  city  of  De- 
struction to  Mount  Zion,  but,  being  weary  and  benighted,  he  asked  me 
if  he  might  lodge  here  to-night. 

Then  she  asked  him  whence  he  was  and  whither  he  was  going;  and  he 
told  her.  She  asked  him  also  how  he  got  into  the  way;  and  he  told  her. 
Then  she  asked  him  what  he  had  seen  and  met  with  in  the  way;  and  he 
told  her.  A.nd  at  last  she  asked  his  name.  So  he  said,  It  is  Christian; 
and  I  have  so  much  the  more  a  desire  to  lodge  here  to-night,  because,  by 
what  I  perceive,  this  place  was  built  by  the  Lord  of  the  hill  for  the  relief 
and  security  of  pilgrims.  So  she  smiled,  but  the  water  stood  in  her 
eyes ;  and,  after  a  little  pause,  she  said,  I  will  call  forth  two  or  three 
more  of  the  family.  So  she  ran  to  the  door  and  called  out  Prudence, 
Piety,  and  Charity,  who,  after  a  little  more  discourse  with  him,  had  him 
in  to  the  family;  and  many  of  them  meeting  him  at  the  threshold  of  the 
house,  said.  Come  in,  thou  blessed  of  the  Lord;  this  house  was  built  by 
the  Lofd  of  the  hill  on  purpose  to  entertain  such  pilgrims  in.  Then  he 
bowed  his  head,  and  followed  them  into  the  house. 


180         Literature  of  Period  F.,  1603-1660. 


Lessoin^  33. 

Milton's  Hymn  on  the  Nativity. 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 
While  the  heaven- born  child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies; 
Nature,  in  awe  to  him, 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim. 
With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize : 
,  It  was  no  season  then  for  her 

To  wanton  with  the  Sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air 
To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow; 
And,  on  her  naked  shame, 
Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 
The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw ; 
Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease, 
Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace; 
She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 
His  ready  harbinger, 
With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing; 
And,  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 
She  strikes  a  univers<'il  peace  through  sea  and  land. 

No  war  or  battle's  sound 
Was  heard  the  world  around ; 
The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  uphung; 
The  hooked  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood; 
The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  arm^d  throng; 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran'  Lord  was  by. 

*  Sovereign. 


Poetry — Milton^  s.  181 


But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began. 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed, 
Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  Ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave. 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 
Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence; 
And  will  not  take  their  flight, 
For  all  the  morning  light, 
Or  Lucifer^  that  often  warned  them  thence; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow, 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

And,  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 
The  Sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed. 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferior  flame 
The  new-enlightened  world  no  more  should  need; 
He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne  or  burning  axletree  could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn, 
Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row : 

Full  little  thought  they  than' 
That  the  mighty  Pan^ 
Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below; 
Perhaps  their  loves  or  else  their  sheep 
Were  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep. 

When  such  music  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 
As  never  was  by  mortal  fingers  strook; 

The  morning  star.  a  Then.  »  The  pastoral  god  of  Grecian  mythology. 


182  Literature  of  Period  F.,  1603-1660. 

Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took: 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly  close. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 
Of  Cynthia's'  seat  the  airy  region  thrilling. 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done. 
And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling: 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier  union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light, 
That  with  long  beams  the  shame-faced  Night  arrayed; 
The  helmed  cherubim 
And  sworded  seraphim 
Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  displayed. 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire. 
With  unexpressive  notes,  to  Heaven's  new-born  heir. 

Such  music  as,  'tis  said. 
Before  was  never  made. 
But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set, 
And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung. 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres! 
Once  bless  our  human  ears. 
If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time ; 
And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow; 
And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 
Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic  symphony. 

»  The  moon's. 


Poetry— Milton' s.  183 


For,  if  such  holy  song- 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 
Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold ; 
And  speckled  Vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 
And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould; 
And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away. 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 
Orbed  in  a  rainbow ;  and,  like  glories  wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between, 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 
With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering; 
And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace-hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  says.  No, 
This  must  not  yet  be  so; 
The  Babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss, 
So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify: 

Yet  first,  to  those  ychained  in  sleep, 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through  the  deep, 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 
While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  outbrake: 
The  agSd  Earth,  aghast 
With  terror  of  that  blast, 
Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake, 
When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread  his  throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 

Full  and  perfect  is, 
But  now  begiDs;  for,  from  this  happy  day. 

The  old  dragon  under  ground. 

In  straiter  limits  bound. 
Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway; 


184  Literature  of  Period  F.,  1603-1660. 

And,  wroth  to  see  bis  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges'  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb ; 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving. 
Apollo^  from  bis  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
No  nightly  trance  or  breathed  spell 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er 
And  the  resounding  shore 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament ; 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edg^d  with  poplar  pale, 
The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn, 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets  mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth 
And  on  the  holy  hearth, 
The  Lars^  and  Lemures^  mourn  with  midnight  plaint. 
In  urns  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 
Affrights  the  flamens*  at  their  service  quaint; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat. 
While  each  peculiar  power  forgoes  his  wonted  seat. 

Peor^  and  Baalim* 
Forsake  their  temples  dim. 
With  that  twice-battered  god  of  Palestine; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth,* 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both. 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine; 

The  Libyc  Hammon''  shrinks  his  horn; 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammuz^  mourn. 

»  To  move  as  a  lash.  2  a.  Grecian  divinity  whose  temple  was  at  Delphi.  *  Ghosts 
of  the  dead.  <  Priests.  ^  The  national  god  of  the  Moabites,  it  is  thought.  «  Plural 
nouns  denoting  the  gods  and  goddesses  of  Syria  and  Palestine.  '  Jupiter,  as  wor- 
shipped in  Libya.  His  statue  there  had  the  head  and  horns  of  a  ram.  '  A  <?hoe- 
nician  god. 


Poetry — Milton's.  185 

And  sullen  Moloch,'  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue; 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue, 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis  and  Orus  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 
In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 
Trampling  the  unshowered  grass  with  lowings  loud ; 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest ; 
Nought  but  prof oundest  hell  can  be  his  shroud ; 
In  vain,  with  timbreled  anthems  dark, 
The  sable-stolid  sorcerers  bear  his  worshiped  ark. 

He  feels  from  Juda's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand; 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn; ' 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide. 
Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine: 
Our  Babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 

So,  when  the  Sun  in  bed, 
Curtained  with  cloudy  red, 
Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave. 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail. 
Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave ; 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 
Fly  after  the  night- steeds,  leaving  their  moon-loved  maze. 

But  see!  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest. 
Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending: 

»  National  god  of  the  Ammonites.  '  Eyes. 


186 


Literature  of  Period  F.,  1603-1660. 


Heaven's  youngest-teemdd  star 
Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 
Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp  attending; 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 

Further  Reading.— I/'^ZZefifro  and  I^  Pe?iseroso  (in  pamphlet  form,  by  Clark  & 
Maynard,  as  also  the  whole  of  Bk.  I.  of  Paradise  Lost).  Of  Paradise  Lost  read  Bk. 
I.,  11.  1-74;  242-330.  Bk.  II.,  50^67;  629-883.  Bk.  III.,  1-55.  Bk.  IV.,  411-735.  Bk. 
v.,  153-208.  Bk.  VI.,  171-353;  507-669;  8^4-892.  Bk.  VIII.,  452-559;  618-753.  Bk.IX., 
305-393;  494-795.    Bk.  X.,  845-965.    Bk.  XI.,  226-285.    Bk.  XII. 


Scheme  for  Review. 


Historical  Sketch 151 

Browne  and  Fuller 152 

Taylor  and  Baxter 153 

Extract  from  Fuller 154 

Extract  from  Taylor 157 

lExtract  from  Browne 159 

Decline  of  Poetry 161 

Metaphysical  Poetry, 161 

Lyric  and  Satirical 162 

Rural  Poetry 163 

.Religious  Poetry 164 


John  Milton 165 

Early  Poems 165 

His  Prose  during  the  Com- 
monwealth   166 

Paradise  Lost 168 

Later  Poems 170 

His  Work 171 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress...  172 

From  Milton's  Prose 174 

From  Pilgrim's  Progress. .  176 

.From  Milton's  Poetry 180 


PEKIOD  VI. 

From  the  Restoration  to  Swift's  Death, 
1660-1745. 


Lessoist  34. 

Brief  Historical  Sketch.— House  of  Stuart  restored  in  the  person  of 
Charles  II.,  1660.  Twenty-eight  of  the  Regicides  arraigned,  and  thir- 
teen executed.  Tea  introduced,  1662.  Royal  Society  chartered,  same 
year.  First  newspaper,  the  Public  Intelligencer,  1663.  Star  Chamber, 
monopolies,  and  Court  of  High  Commission  not  restored.  Sole  right  of 
Parliament  to  grant  supplies  to  the  Crown  not  disputed.  Secret  treaty 
made  with  France,  by  which  Charles  II.  became  a  pensioner  of  Louis 
XIV.  Great  Plague  in  London,  1665-6.  Great  Fire,  1666.  Titus  Gates' 
affair,  the  "  Popish  Plot,"  1678.  Habeas  Corpus  act  passed,  1679.  Rye- 
House  Plot,  1682.  Accession  of  Jas.  II.,  1685.  Revocation  of  Edict  of 
Nantes,  1685.  Invasion  of  England  and  of  Scotland  by  Monmouth  and 
Argyle,  same  year.  Jeffreys'  bloody  assizes  follow.  Quarrel  of  the  king 
with  the  two  Universities  and  Declaration  of  Indulgence,  1687.  Trial 
of  the  seven  bishops  for  petitioning  to  be  excused  from  ordering  the 
Declaration  to  be  read  in  the  churches,  1688.  Revolution,  by  which 
Wm.  of  Orange  and  Mary  came  to  the  English  throne  made  vacant  by 
the  flight  of  James,  1688.  Grand  Alliance  of  England,  Austria,  Spain, 
and  the  Netherlands  against  France  formed  by  William,  1689.  Irish  sub- 
dued, 1690.  White  paper  manufactured  in  England,  same  year.  The 
Ministry  becomes  what  it  is  now,  the  executive  committee  of  the  ma- 
jority of  the  House  of  Commons.  Bank  of  England  established,  1694. 
National  Debt,  1697,  £5,000,000.  Second  Grand  Alliance  of  England, 
Holland,  Hanover,  and  Austria,  joined  afterward  by  Prussia,  the  Ger- 
man Empire,  and  Portugal,  is  formed  by  William,  and  begins,  1702, 
the  War  of  the  Spanish  Succession.  Marlborough  in  command  of  the 
allied  forces.  Anne  comes  to  the  throne,  1702.  National  Debt,  1703, 
£14,000,000.    England  and  Scotland  united,  1707.    About  1709  first 


188         Literature  of  Period  F/.,  1660-1745. 


daily  newspaper  established.  Impeachment  of  Dr.  Sacheverell,  1709-10. 
Marlborough  and  the  Whig  party  fall,  and  Oxford  and  Bolingbroke  come 
into  power,  1710,  Crown,  during  the  reigns  of  Wm.  III.  and  Anne,  be- 
comes less  personal  and  more  official.  Veto  on  bills  practically  given 
up,  last  exercised,  1707.  War  of  the  Spanish  Succession  closed  by 
the  treaty  of  Utrecht,  1713.  National  Debt,  1714,  £54,000,000  (now 
£800,000,000).  George  I.,  founder  of  the  House  of  Hanover,  comes 
to  the  throne,  1714.  Invasion  by  the  Pretender,  son  of  Jas.  II.,  1715. 
Bolingbroke  and  Oxford  impeached,  1715.  South  Sea  Company  estab- 
lished 1711,  fails  1720.  Sir  Robt.  Walpole  Prime  Minister,  1721-42. 
A  great  Peace  Minister,  removed  the  duties  from  more  than  100  articles 
of  export  and  from  30  of  import.  George  II.  comes  to  the  throne,  1727. 
Methodism  founded,  at  first  within  the  Church,  1727-9.  Separation  of 
Methodism  from  the  Church,  1738.  Five  great  hospitals  established, 
1719-45. 


Lessoist  35. 

POETEY.  Change  of  Style.— ''We  have  seen  the  natural 
style,  as  distinguished  from  the  artificial,  in  the  Elizabethan 
poets.  Style  became  not  only  natural  but  artistic  when  it  was 
used  by  a  great  genius  like  Shakespeare  or  Spenser,  for  a  first 
rate  poet  creates  rules  of  art ;  his  work  itself  is  art.  But 
when  the  art  of  poetry  is  making,  its  rules  are  not  laid  down, 
and  the  second  rate  poets,  inspired  only  by  their  feelings,  will 
write  in  a  natural  style  unrestrained  by  rules;  that  is,  they 
will  put  their  feelings  into  verse  without  caring  much  for  the 
form  in  which  they  do  it.  As  long  as  they  live  in  the  midst  of 
a  youthful  national  life,  and  feel  an  ardent  sympathy  with  it, 
their  style  will  be  fresh  and  impassioned,  and  give  pleasure 
because  of  the  strong  feeling  that  inspires  it.  But  it  will  also 
be  extravagant  and  unrestrained  in  its  use  of  images  and 
words  because  of  its  want  of  art.  This  is  the  history  of  the 
style  of  the  poets  of  the  middle  period  of  Elizabeth's  reign. 

Afterwards  the  national  life  grew  chill,  and  the  feelings  of 
the  poets  also  chilled.  Then  the  want  of  art  in  the  style  made 
itself  felt.     The  far-fetched  images,  the  hazarded  meanings, 


Poetry — Artificial  Style.  189 

the  over-fanciful  way  of  putting  thoughts,  the  sensational  ex- 
pression of  feeling  in  which  the  Elizabethan  poets  indulged 
not  only  appeared  in  all  their  ugliness,  when  they  were  inspired 
by  no  warm  feeling,  but  were  indulged  in  far  more  than  be- 
fore. Men  tried  to  produce  by  extravagant  use  of  words  the 
same  results  that  living  feeling  had  produced,  and  the  more 
they  failed,  the  more  extravagant  and  fantastic  they  became, 
till  at  last  their  poetry  ceased  to  have  clear  meaning.  This  is 
the  history  of  the  style  of  the  poets  from  the  later  days  of 
Elizabeth  till  the  Civil  War. 

The  natural  style,  unregulated  by  art,  had  thus  become  un- 
natural. When  it  had  reached  that  point,  men  began  to  feel 
how  necessary  it  was  that  the  style  of  poetry  should  be  sub- 
jected to  the  rules  of  art,  and  two  influences  partly  caused  and 
partly  supported  this  desire.  One  was  the  influence  of  Milton. 
Milton,  first  by  his  genius,  which,  as  I  said,  creates  of  itself 
an  artistic  style,  and  secondly  by  his  knowledge  and  imitation 
of  the  great  classical  models,  was  able  to  give  the  first  example 
in  England  of  a  pure,  grand,  and  finished  style,  and  in  blank- 
verse  and  the  sonnet  wrote  for  the  first  time  with  absolute 
correctness.  Another  influence  was  that  of  the  movement  all 
over  Europe  towards  inquiry  into  the  right  way  of  doing 
things,  and  into  the  truth  of  things,  a  movement  we  shall  soon 
see  at  work  in  science,  politics,  and  religion.  In  poetry  it 
produced  a  school  of  criticism  which  first  took  form  in  France, 
and  the  influence  of  Boileau,  La  Fontaine,  and  others  who 
were  striving  after  greater  finish  and  neatness  of  expression 
told  on  England  now.  It  is  an  influence  which  has  been  ex- 
aggerated. It  is  absurd  to  place  the  '  creaking  lyre  '  of  Boileau 
side  by  side  with  Dryden's  Hong  resounding  march  and 
energy  divine'  of  verse.  Our  critical  school  of  poets  have 
no  French  qualities  in  them  even  when  they  imitate  the 
French. 

Further,  our  own  poets  had  already,  before  the  Eestoration, 
begun  the  critical  work,  and  the  French  influence  served  only 


190         Literature  of  Period  VL,  166u-1745. 

to  give  it  a  greater  impulse.  We  shall  see  the  growth  of  a  colder 
and  more  correct  spirit  of  art  in  Cowley,  Denham,  and 
Waller.  Vigorous  form  was  given  to  that  spirit  by  Dryden, 
and  perfection  of  artifice  added  to  it  by  Pope.  The  artificial 
style  succeeded  to,  and  extinguished,  the  naturaV^ 

"  During  the  period  now  under  review,  the  whole  of  English  iiterarj 
effort,  but  especially  poetical  effort,  has  one  aim  and  is  governed  h^ 
one  principle.  This  is  the  desire  to  attain  perfection  of  form,  a  sense  of 
the  beauty  of  literary  composition  as  such.  It  was  found  to  be  possible 
to  please  by  your  manner  as  well  as  by  your  matter,  and  having  been 
shown  to  be  possible,  it  became  necessary.  No  writer  who  neglected  the 
graces  of  style  could  gain  acceptance  by  the  public. 

If  this  definition  of  the  literary  aim  which  dominated  all  writing  dur- 
ing the  hundred  years  which  followed  1660  be  just,  it  follows  from  it 
that  the  period  would  be  more  favorable  to  prose  than  to  poetry.  What 
in  fact  came  to  pass  was,  that  a  compromise  was  effected  between  poetry 
and  prose,  and  the  leadmg  writers  adopted,  as  the  most  telling  form  of 
utterance,  prosaic  verse,  metre  without  poetry.  It  is  by  courtesy  that 
the  versifiers  of  this  century  from  Dryden  to  Churchill  are  stjied  poets. 
They  wanted  inspiration,  lofty  sentiment,  the  heroic  soul,  chivalrous 
devotion,  the  inner  eye  of  faith — above  all,  love  and  sympathy.  They 
could  not  mean  greatly.  But  such  meaning  as  they  had  they  labored 
to  express  in  the  neatest,  most  terse  and  pointed  form  which  our  lan- 
guage is  capable  of.  If  not  poets,  they  were  literary  artists." — Mark 
Pattison. 

Change  of  Poetic  Subject.— ''The  subject  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan poets  was  Man  as  influenced  by  the  Passions,  and  it 
was  treated  from  the  side  of  natural  feeling.  This  was  fully 
and  splendidly  done  by  Shakespeare.  But  after  a  time  the 
subject  followed,  as  we  have  seen  in  speaking  of  the  drama, 
the  same  career  as  the  style.  It  was  treated  in  an  extrav- 
agant and  sensational  manner,  and  the  representation  of  the 
passions  tended  to  become,  and  did  become,  unnatural  or 
fantastic.  Milton  alone  redeemed  the  subject  from  this  vicious 
excess.  He  wrote  in  a  grave  and  natural  manner  of  the  pas- 
sions of  the  human  heart,  and  he  made  strong  the  religious 
passions  of  love  of  God,  sorrow  for  sin,  and  others,  in  English 


Poetry — Cowley,  Waller^  and  Butler,        191 

poetry.  But  with  him  the  subject  of  man  as  influenced  by 
the  passions  died  for  a  time.  Dryden,  Pope,  and  their  fol- 
lowers turned  to  another.  They  left  the  passions  aside,  and 
wrote  of  the  things  in  which  the  intellect  and  the  conscience, 
the  social  and  political  instincts  in  man  were  interested.  In 
this  way  the  satiric,  didactic,  philosophical,  and  party  poetry 
of  a  new  school  arose. 

Transition  Poets. — There  were  a  few  poets,  writing  partly 
before  and  partly  after  the  Eestoration,  who  represent  the 
passage  from  the  fantastic  to  the  more  correct  style.  Abra- 
ham Cowley  was  one  of  these.  His  love  poems.  The  Mistress, 
1647,  are  courtly,  witty,  and  have  some  of  the  Elizabethan 
imagination.  His  later  poems,  owing  probably  to  his  life  in 
France,  were  more  exact  in  verse,  and  more  cold  in  form.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  Edmund  Waller,  who  'first  made 
writing  in  rhyme  easily  an  art'  He  also  lived  a  long  time  in 
France,  and  died  in  1687.  Sir  3^0.  Denham's  Cooper's  Hill, 
1643,  was  a  favorite  with  Dryden  for  the  'majesty  of  its  style.' 
It  may  rank  as  one  of  the  first  of  our  descriptive  poems,  and 
its  didactic  reflectiveness  and  the  chill  stream  of  its  verse 
and  thought  link  him  closely  to  Pope.  Sir  W.  Daven"ANt's 
Gondilert,  1651,  a  heroic  poem,  is  perhaps  the  most  striking 
example  of  this  transition.  Worthless  as  poetry,  it  represents 
the  new  interest  in  political  philosophy  and  in  science  that  was 
arising,  and  preludes  the  intellectual  poetry.  Its  preface  dis- 
courses of  rhyme  and  the  rules  of  art,  and  represents  the  new 
critical  influence  which  came  over  with  the  exiled  court  from 
France.  The  critical  school  had,  therefore,  begun  even  before 
Dryden's  poems  were  written.  The  change  was  less  sudden 
than  it  seemed. 

Satiric  poetry,  soon  to  become  a  greater  thing,  was  made 
during  this  transition  time  into  a  powerful  weapon  by  two  men, 
each  on  a  different  side.  An"drew  Marvell's  Satire^,  after 
the  Eestoration,  represent  the  Puritan's  wrath  with  the  vices 
of  the  court  and  king,  and  his  shame  for  the  disgrace  of  Eng- 


192         Literature  of  Period  7/.,  1660-1745. 

land  among  the  nations.  The  Hudihras  of  Samuel  Butler, 
in  1663,  represents  the  fierce  reaction  which  had  set  in  against 
Puritanism.  It  is  justly  famed  for  wit,  learning,  good  sense, 
and  ingenious  drollery,  and,  in  accordance  with  the  new  criti- 
cism, it  is  absolutely  without  obscurity.  It  is  often  as  terse 
as  Pope's  best  work.  But  it  is  too  long,  its  wit  wearies  us  at 
last,  and  it  undoes  the  force  of  its  attack  on  the  Puritans,  by 
its  exaggeration.  Satire  should  have  at  least  the  semblance 
of  truth;  yet  Butler  calls  the  Puritans  cowards.  We  turn 
now  to  the  first  of  these  poets  in  whom  poetry  is  founded  on 
intellect  rather  than  on  feeling,  and  whose  best  verse  is  de- 
voted to  argument  and  satire." 

BiBLioGRAPHA.  CowLEY,  WALLER,  and  BuTLER.— R.  Bell's  and  S.  Johnson's  Lives 
Eng.  Poets;  Ward's  Anthology;  Minto's  Man.  Eng.  Prose  Lit.;  J.  Coleman's  Hi.Ht. 
Essays;  Bentley's  Miscel.,  v.  37,  1855;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v.  91,  1860;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  24, 1855-6, 
and  v.  43,  1865;  Fraser's  Mag.,  v.  53,  1856. 

HiESSQN    36. 

John  Dryden. — ''He  was  the  first  of  the  new,  as  Milton 
was  the  last  of  the  elder,  school  of  poetry.  It  was  late  in  life 
that  he  gained  fame.  Born  in  1631,  he  was  a  Cromwellite 
till  the  Restoration,  when  he  began  the  changes  which  mark 
his  life.  His  poem  on  the  death  of  the  Protector  was  soon 
followed  by  the  AstrcBci  Bedux,  which  celebrated  the  return  of 
justice  to  the  realm  in  the  person  of  Charles  II.  The  Aimus 
MiraUUs  appeared  in  1667,  and  in  this  his  great  power  was  first 
clearly  shown.  It  is  the  power  of  clear  reasoning  expressing 
itself  with  entire  ease  in  a  rapid  succession  of  condensed 
thoughts  in  verse.  Such  a  power  fitted  Dryden  for  satire,  and 
his  Absalom  and  Ahifophel  is  the  foremost  of  English  satires. 

He  had  been  a  playwriter  till  its  appearance  in  1681,  and  the 
rhymed  plays  which  he  had  written  enabled  him  to  perfect  the 
versification  which  is  so  remarkable  in  it  and  the  poems  that 
followed.  The  satire  itself,  written  in  mockery  of  the  Popish 
Plot  and  the  Exclusion  Bill,  attacked  Shaftesbury  as  Ahito- 


Poetry — Dryden  and  Others.  193 

phel,  was  kind  to  Monmouth  as  Absalom,  and,  in  its  sketch  of 
Buckingham  as  Zimri,  the  poet  avenged  himself  for  the  Re- 
hearsal. It  was  the  first  fine  example  of  that  party  poetry 
which  became  still  more  bitter  and  personal  in  the  hands  of 
Pope.  It  was  followed  by  the  Medal,  a  new  attack  on  Shaftes- 
bury, and  the  Mac  Flechnoe,  in  which  Shad  well,  a  rival  poet, 
who  had  supported  Shaftesbury's  party,  was  made  a  laughing- 
stock. After  these,  Dryden  taught  theology  in  verse,  and  the 
Religio  Laid,  1682,  defends,  and  states  the  argument  for,  the 
Church  of  England.  It  was  perhaps  poverty  that  drove  him, 
on  the  accession  of  James  II.,  to  change  his  religion,  and  the 
Hind  and  Panther,  1687,  is  as  fine  a  model  of  clear  reasoning 
in  behalf  of  the  milk-white  hind  of  the  Church  of  Rome  as  the 
Religio  Laid  was  in  behalf  of  the  Church  of  England,  which 
now  becomes  the  spotted  panther. 

As  a  narrative  poet  his  fables  and  translations,  produced 
late  in  life,  in  1700,  give  him  a  high  rank,  though  the  fine 
harmony  of  their  verse  does  not  win  us  to  forget  their  coarse- 
ness, and  their  lack  of  that  skill  in  arranging  a  story  which 
comes  from  imaginative  feeling. 

As  a  lyric  poet  his  fame  rests  on  the  animated  Ode  for  St. 
Cecilia's  Day.  His  translation  of  Vergil  has  fire,  but  wants 
the  dignity  and  tenderness  of  the  original.  From  Milton's 
death  till  his  own,  in  1700,  Dryden  reigned  undisputed,  and 
round  his  throne  in  Will's  Coffeehouse,  where  he  sat  as 
'  Glorious  John,'  we  may  place  the  names  of  the  lesser  poets, 
the  Earls  of  Dorset,  Roscommon,  and  Mulgrave,  Sir  Charles 
Sedley,  and  the  Earl  of  Rochester.  The  lighter  poetry' of  the 
court  lived  on  in  the  last  two.  John"  Oldham  won  a  short 
fame  by  his  Satires  on  the  Jesuits,  1679 ;  and  Bishop  Kejst, 
1668,  set  on  foot,  in  his  Morning  and  Evemyig  Hymns,  a  new 
type  of  religious  poetry." 

"  Of  the  best  English  poetry  it  might  be  said  that  it  is  understanding 
aerated  by  imagination.  In  Dryden  the  solid  part  too  often  refused  to 
mix  kindly  with  the  leaven,  either  remaining  lumpish,  or  rising  to  a  hasty 


194         Literature  of  Period  VI.,  1660-1745. 

puffiness.  Grace  and  lightness  were  with  him  much  more  a  laborious 
achievement  than  a  natural  gift,  and  it  is  all  the  more  remarkable  that 
he  should  so  often  have  attained  to  what  seems  such  an  easy  perfection 
in  both.  He  was  not  wholly  and  unconsciously  a  poet,  but  a  thinker 
who  sometimes  lost  himself  on  enchanted  ground,  and  was  transfigured 
by  its  touch. 

This  preponderance  in  him  of  the  reasoning  over  the  intuitive  facul- 
ties, the  one  always  there,  the  other  flashing  in  when  you  least  expect  it, 
accounts  for  that  inequality  and  even  incongruousness  in  his  writing 
which  makes  one  revise  his  judgment  at  every  tenth  page.  In  his  prose 
you  come  upon  passages  that  persuade  you  he  is  a  poet,  in  spite  of  his 
verses'  so  often  turning  state's  evidence  against  him  as  to  convince  you 
he  is  none.  Now  and  then  we  come  upon  something  that  makes  us 
hesitate  again  whether,  after  all,  Dryden  was  not  grandiose  rather  than 
great.  He  is  best  upon  a  level,  table  land  it  is  true,  and  a  very  high 
level,  but  still  somewhere  between  the  loftier  peaks  of  inspiration  and 
the  plain  of  every  day  life.  As  I  read  him,  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  an 
ostrich,  to  be  classed  with  flying  things  and  capable,  what  with  leap  and 
flap  together,  of  leaving  the  earth  for  a  longer  or  shorter  space,  but 
loving  the  open  plain,  where  wing  and  foot  help  each  other  to  something 
that  is  both  flight  and  run  at  once. 

We  always  feel  his  epoch  in  him,  that  he  was  the  lock  which  let  our 
language  down  from  its  point  of  highest  poetry  to  its  level  of  easiest 
and  most  gently  flowing  prose." —  J.  R.  Lowell. 

The  Dbama. — "  The  change  that  now  passed  over  literature 
was  as  great  in  the  drama  as  in  poetry.  Two  acting  compa- 
nies were  formed  on  the  king's  return,  under  Thomas  Killigrew 
and  Davenant;  actresses  came  upon  the  stage  for  the  first  time, 
and  scenery  began  to  be  used.  Dryden  began  his  dramatic 
work  with  comedies,  1663,  but  soon  after,  following  Corneille, 
though  he  abjured  French  influence,  made  rhyme,  instead  of 
blank-verse,  the  vehicle  of  tragedy.  His  tragedies,  like  the 
rest  of  the  time,  were  written  in  a  pompous  heroic  style.  The 
Duke  of  Buckingham  ridiculed  them  in  the  Rehearsal,  1671, 
and  sometime  after  Dryden  changed  his  style,  and  wrote  in 
another  manner,  of  which  All  for  Love  and  the  Spanish 
Friar,  are  perhaps  the  best  examples.  His  plays  have  but 
little  sentiment,  for  Dryden's  treatment  of  the  emotions  is  al- 


Poetry — Dryden  and  Others.  195 

ways  brutal,  but  they  have  some  neat  intrigue,  some  fine  pas- 
sages. JoHJ^  Crowke's  Sir  Courtly  Nice,  Nat  Lee's  Rival 
Queens,  and  two  pathetic  tragedies  by  Thomas  Otway,  The 
Ori^lian  and  Venice  Preserved,  are  of  the  Restoration  time 
and  kept  the  stage. 

It  was  in  Comedy  that  the  dramatists  of  the  Restoration  ex- 
celled. William  Wycherley,  whose  gross  vigor  is  remarkable, 
introduced  the  prose  Comedy  of  Manners,  in  1672,  and  Mrs. 
Behn,  Sir  George  Etherege,  and  others  carried  it  on  to  the 
Revolution.  The  wit  of  their  comedies  is  the  wit  of  a  vulgar 
and  licentious  society.  After  the  Revolution,  William  Con- 
greve,  Sir  John  Vanbrugh,  and  George  Farquar  made  comedy 
more  gentlemanly  and  its  intrigue  more  subtile.  Though 
without  truth  to  nature,  their  plays  sparkle  with  wit  in  every 
line.  They  exaggerate  the  vices  of  the  time,  but  their  immo- 
rality is  p'artly  forgotten  in  their  swift  and  delightful  gaiety. 

Jeremy  Collier's  famous  attack  on  the  stage,  1698,  may  have 
had  some  influence  in  purifying  it,  but  it  was  really  the  growth 
of  a  higher  tone  of  society  which  improved  it.  It  grew  dull 
in  the  stupid  plays  of  Steele,  in  Addison's  ponderous  tragedy 
of  Cato,  1713,  and  in  the  melancholy  tragedies  of  Rowe,  1700- 
13,  whose  name  is,  however,  to  be  remembered  as  the  first 
editor  of  Shakespeare,  1709-10.  The  four  folio  editions  of 
Shakespeare  had  been  previously  set  forth  in  1623, 1632, 1664, 
and  1685.  The  Beggar's  Opera,  1728,  of  Gat  introduced  a 
new  form  of  dramatic  literature,  and  Colley  Cibber  carried  on 
the  lighter  comedy  into  the  reign  of  George  II.  Fielding  then 
made  the  stage  the  vehicle  of  criticism  on  the  follies,  literature, 
and  politics  of  the  time,  and  the  actors,  Foote  and  Garrick,  did 
the  same  in  their  farces." 

Bibliography.  Dryden  and  Conoreve.— R.  Bell's  and  S.  Johnson's  Lives  of  Eng. 
Poets;  Macaulay's  Essays  ;  Lowell's  Among  my  Books  ;  D.  Masson's  Ihvjden  and  Lit. 
of  the  Rest;  H.  Reed's  Lectures  on  Brit.  Poets  ;  Ward's  Anthology;  Ed.  Rev.,  v. 
102;  West.  Rev,,  v.  63,  1855;  Eel.  Mag.,  Aug.,  1854  ;  Coleridge's  Northern  Worthier; 
Thackeray's  .EJng.  Humorists ;  Thomson's  Wits  and  Beaux  of  Society . 


196         Literature  of  Period   YL,  1660-1745. 

Dryden's  Ode  in  Tionor  of  St.  Cecilia's  Day. 
'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son; 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne: 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around; 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound: 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his.side, 
Sate,  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride, 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Chorus. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pairl 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky. 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love.) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god, 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode. 


The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 

A  present  deity!  they  shout  around; 

A  present  deity!  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound: 

With  ravished  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  tlie  spheres. 


Poetry — Drydens,  197 

Chorus. 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarcli  hears, 
Etc.  etc.  etc. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young. 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes; 
Sound  the  trumpets;  beat  the  drums; 
Flushed  v^ith  a  purple  grace, 
He  shows  his  honest  face; 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath:  he  comes!  he  comes! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure; 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Chorus. 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure : 
Etc.  etc.  etc. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  Muse 

Soft  pity  to  infuse : 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen. 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  welt'ring  in  his  blood; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed, 


198         Literature  of  Period  YI.,  1660-1745. 

On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below ; 
*  And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole; 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

GllOTUS. 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 
The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 
Etc.  etc.  etc. 


The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree: 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move. 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures. 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble ; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble ; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying: 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee! 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again : 
At  length,  wdth  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Chorus. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain. 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Etc.  etc.  etc. 


Poetry — DryderCs.  199 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again: 

A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 

Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 

And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 

Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head! 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 

And  amazed,  he  stares  around, 
'Revenge!  revenge!'  Timotheus  cries, 

'  See  the  Furies  arise. 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear. 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyesl 

Behold  a  ghastly  band, 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 

And  unburied  remain 

Inglorious  on  the  plain; 

Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew ! 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high. 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods!' 
The  princes  applaud,  with  a  furious  joy, 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 

Thais  led  the  way 

To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

Gliorus. 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way 
Etc.  etc.  etc. 

Thus,  long  ago. 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow. 

While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre. 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 


200         Literature  of  Period  YL,  1660-1745. 

The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  eolernn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  sides, 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 

Or  and  Chorus. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sW'Cet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacfed  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 


Lesson  37. 

The  Prose  Literature. — '^  I  have  said  that  towards  the  end 
of  Elizabeth's  reign  men  settled  down  to  think  and  inquire. 
Intellectual  had  succeeded  to  active  life.  We  have  seen  this 
in  the  poetry  of  the  time;  and  the  great  work  of  Baco:^^, 
which  was  then  begun,  I'epresents  the  same  thing  in  prose. 
He  worked  at  not  only  all  subjects  of  inquiry  but  also  at  the 
right  method  of  enquiry.  The  Advancement  of  Learning  and 
Novum  Orgamim  did  not  fulfil  all  he  aimed  at,  but  they  did 
stir  the  whole  of  English  intelligence  into  activity. 

In  Science,  tlie  impulse  he  gave  was  only  partly  right,  and 
the  work  of  Science  in  England  was  behind  that  of  the  Conti- 
nent. The  religious  and  the  political  struggle  absorbed  the 
country,  and  it  was  not  till  after  the  Restoration,  with  two 
exceptions,  that  scientific  discovery  advanced  so  far  as  to  claim 
recognition  in  a  history  of  Literature.     The  Royal  Society 


Prose — Science^  Theology^  and  Politics.       201 

was  embodied  in  1662,  and  astronomy,  experimental  chem- 
istry, medicine,  mineralogy,  zoology,  botany,  vegetable  physi- 
ology were  all  founded  as  studies  and  their  literature  begun 
in  the  age  of  the  Restoration.  One  man's  work  was  so  great 
in  science  as  to  merit  his  name's  being  mentioned  among  the 
literary  men  of  England.  In  1671  Isaac  Newton,  1642-1727, 
laid  his  Theory  of  Light  before  the  Royal  Society;  in  the  year 
before  the  Revolution,  his  Principia  established  with  its  proof 
of  the  theory  of  gravitation  the  true  system  of  the  universe. 

It  was  in  political  and  religious  knowledge,  liowever,  that 
the  intellectual  inquiry  of  the  nation  was  most  shown.  When 
the  thinking  spirit  succeeds  the  active  and  adventurous  in  a 
people,  the  first  thing  they  will  think  upon  is  the  true  method 
and  grounds  of  government,  both  divine  and  human.  Two 
sides  will  be  taken,  the  side  of  Authority  and  the  side  of  Rea- 
son in  Religion;  the  side  of  Authority  and  the  side  of  Individ- 
ual Liberty  in  Politics. 

The  Theological  Literature  of  those  who  declared  that  rea- 
son was  supreme  as  a  test  of  truth,  arose  with  some  men  who 
met  at  Lord  Falkland's  just  before  the  civil  war,  and  especially 
with  John  Hales  and  William  Chillingworth.  With 
them  Jeremy  Taylor  pleaded,  as  we  have  seen,  the  cause  of 
religious  liberty  and  toleration,  and  of  rightness  of  life  as 
more  important  than  a  correct  theology.  After  the  Restora- 
tion and  Revolution,  their  work  was  carried  on  by  Bishop 
Burnet,  Robert  Boyle,  the  philosopher.  Archbishop  Til- 
LOTSON,  and  Bishop  Butler,  whose  Sermons  and  Analogy  of 
Religion,  Natural  and  Revealed,  to  the  Constitution  and  Course 
of  Nature,  1736,  endeavor  to  make  peace  between  Authority 
and  Reason.  Many  other  divines  of  the  English  Church  took 
one  side  or  another,  or  opposed  the  growing  Deism.  Isaac 
Barrow  is  to  be  mentioned  for  his  sedate,  Robert  South  for 
his  fierce  and  witty,  eloquence,  and  in  them  and  in  men  like 
Edward  Stillingfleet  and  William  Sherlock,  English 
theological  prose  took  form. 


202         Literature  of  Period   VL,  1660-1745. 

Political  Literature. — The  resistance  to  authority  in 
the  opposition  to  the  theory  of  the  Divine  Right  of  Kings 
did  not  enter  into  Literature  till  after  it  had  been  worked  out 
practically  in  the  Civil  War.  During  the  Commonwealth  and 
after  the  Revolution,  it  took  the  form  of  a  discussion  on  the 
abstract  question  of  the  Science  of  Government,  and  was  min- 
gled with  an  inquiry  into  the  origin  of  society  and  the  ground 
of  social  life. 

Thomas  Hobbes,  1588-1674,  during  the  Commonwealth, 
was  the  first  who  dealt  with  the  question  from  the  side  of 
reason  alone,  and  he  is  also  the  first  of  all  our  prose  writers 
whose  style  may  be  said  to  be  uniform  and  correct,  and  adapted 
carefully  to  the  subjects  on  which  he  wrote.  His  treatise, 
the  Leviathan,  1651,  declared  (1)  that  the  origin  of  all  power 
was  in  the  people,  and  (2)  the  end  of  all  power  was  for  the 
common  weal.  It  destroyed  the  theory  of  a  Divine  Right  of 
Kings  and  Priests,  but  it  created  another  kind  of  Divine  Right 
when  it  said  that  the  power  lodged  in  rulers  by  the  people  could 
not  be  taken  away  by  the  people.  Sir  R.  Filmer  supported 
the  side  of  Divine  Right  in  his  Patriarclia,  published  in  1680. 
Hekry  Revile  in  his  Dialogue  concerning  Government,  and 
James  Harrington  in  his  romance.  The  Commonwealth  of 
Oceana,  published  at  the  beginning  of  the  Commonwealth, 
contended  that  all  secure  government  was  to  be  based  on 
property,  but  Nevile  supported  a  monarchy,  and  Harrington — 
with  whom  I  may  class  Algernon  Sidney,  executed  in  1683, — 
a  democracy,  on  this  basis. 

John  Locke,  1632-1704,  in  his  treatise  on  Civil  Government 
followed,  in  1689-1690,  the  two  doctrines  of  Hobbes,  but  with 
these  two  important  additions — (1)  that  the  people  have  a 
right  to  take  away  the  power  given  by  them  to  the  ruler,  (2) 
that  the  ruler  is  responsible  to  the  people  for  the  trust  reposed 
in  him,  and  (3)  that  legislative  assemblies  are  supreme  as  the 
voice  of  the  people.  This  was  the  political  philosophy  of  the 
Revolution. 


Prose — Science^  Theology^  and  Politics.      203 

Locke  carried  the  same  spirit  of  free  inquiry  into  the  realm 
of  religion,  and  in  his  three  Letters  on  Toleration,  1689-90-92, 
laid  down  the  philosophical  grounds  for  liberty  of  religious 
thought.  He  finished  by  entering  the  realm  of  metaphysical 
inquiry.  In  1690  appeared  his  Essay  concerning  the  Human 
Understanding,  in  which  he  investigated  its  limits  and  traced 
all  ideas,  and  therefore  all  knowledge,  to  experience.  In  his 
clear  statement  of  the  way  in  which  the  understanding  works, 
in  the  way  in  which  he  guarded  it  and  language  against  their 
errors  in  the  inquiry  after  truth,  he  did  as  much  for  the  true 
method  of  thinking  as  Bacon  had  done  for  the  science  of 
nature. 

The  intellectual  stir  of  the  time  produced,  apart  from  the 
great  movement  of  thought,  a  good  deal  of  Miscellaneous  Lit- 
erature. Sir  William  Petty,  in  1667,  made  the  first  effort 
after  a  science  of  political  economy  in  his  Treatise  on  Taxes. 
Characters,  essays,  letter-writing,  memoirs,  all  came  to  the 
front.  The  painting  of  short  *  characters^  was  carried  on  after 
i;he  Restoration  by  Saml.  Butler  and  W.  Charleton.  These 
'  characters '  had  no  personality,  but,  as  party  spirit  deepened, 
names  thinly  disguised  were  given  to  characters  drawn  of  liv- 
ing men,  and  Dryden  and  Pope  in  poetry  and  all  the  prose 
wits  of  the  time  of  Queen  Anne  and  George  I.  made  personal, 
and  often  violent,  sketches  of  their  opponents  a  special  ele- 
ment in  literature. 

After  the  Restoration,  Cowley's  small  volume,  and  Dryden, 
in  the  masterly  criticism  on  his  art  which  he  prefixed  to  some 
of  his  dramas,  gave  richness  to  the  Essay.  These  two  writers 
began,  with  Hobbes,  the  second  period  of  English  prose,  in 
which  the  style  is  easy,  unaffected,  moulded  to  the  subject, 
and  the  proper  words  are  put  in  their  proper  places.  It  is  as 
different  .from  the  style  that  came  before  it  as  the  easy  man- 
ners of  a  gentleman  are  from  those  of  a  learned  man  unaccus- 
tomed to  society.     In  William  Ill's,  time  Sir  W.  Temple's 


204         Literature  of  Period   VL,  1660-1745. 

pleasant  Essays  brings  us  in  style  and  tone  nearer  to  the  gi'eat 
class  of  essayists  of  whom  Addison  was  chief. 

Lady  Rachel  Eussell's  Letters  begin  the  letter -writing  liter- 
ature of  England,  in  which  Gray  and  Cowper,  Byron  and 
Beckford  have  done  the  best  work. 

Pepys,  in  1 660-69,  and  Evelyn,  whose  Diary  grows  full  after 
1640,  begin  that  class  of  gossiping  memoirs  which  have  been 
of  so  much  use  in  giving  color  to  history.  History  itself  at 
this  time  is  little  better  than  memoirs,  and  such  a  name  may 
be  fairly  given  to  Olaken^don's  History  of  the  Civil  Wars, 
begun  in  1641,  and  to  Bishop  Burnet's  History  of  his  otv7i 
Time,  and  to  J  lis  History  of  the  Reformation,  begun  in  1679, 
completed  in  1715.  Finally,  classical  criticism,  in  the  dis- 
cussion on  the  genuineness  of  the  Letters  of  Phalaris,  was 
created  by  Richard  Bentley  in  1697-99. 

The  Literature  of  CIueen  Anne  and  the  first  Georges. 
— With  the  closing  years  of  William  III.  and  the  accession  of 
Queen  Anne,  1702,  a  literature  arose  which  was  partly  new 
and  partly  a  continuation  of  that  of  the  Restoration.  The 
conflict  between  those  who  took  the  oath  to  the  new  dynasty 
and  the  Nonjurors  who  refused,  the  hot  blood  that  it  pro- 
duced, the  war  between  Dissent  and  Church  and  between  the 
two  parties  which  now  took  the  names  of  Whig  and  Tory 
produced  a  mass  of  political  pamphlets,,  of  which  Daniel 
Defoe's  and  Swift's  were  the  best;  of  songs  and  ballads,  like 
Lillihullero,  which  were  sung  in  every  street;  of  squibs,  re- 
views, and  satirical  poems  and  letters.  Everyone  joined  in  it, 
and  it  rose  into  importance  in  the  work  of  the  greater  men 
who  mingled  more  literary  studies  with  their  political  excite- 
ment. In  politics  all  the  abstract  discussions  we  have  men- 
tioned ceased  to  be  abstract  and  became  personal  and  practical, 
and  the  spirit  of  inquiry  applied  itself  more  closely  to  the 
questions  of  every-day  life.  The  whole  of  this  stirring  literary 
life  was  concentrated  in  London,  where  the  agitation  of  soci- 


Prose — Science^  Theology^  and  Politics.       205 

ety  was  hottest;  and  it  is  round  this  vivid  city  life  that  the 
literature  of  Queen  Anne  and  the  two  following  reigns  is  best 
grouped. 

It  was  with  a  few  exceptions  a  Party  Literature.  The 
Whig  and  Tory  leaders  enlisted  on  their  sides  the  best  poets 
and  prose  writers,  who  fiercely  satirized  and  unduly  praised 
them  under  names  thinly  disguised.  Personalities"  were  sent 
to  and  fro  like  shots  in  battle.  Those  who  could  do  this  work 
well  were  well  rewarded,  but  the  rank  and  file  of  writers  were 
left  to  starve.  Literature  was  thus  honored  not  for  itself,  but 
for  the  sake  of  party.  The  result  was  that  the  abler  men  low- 
ered it  by  making  it  a  political  tool,  and  the  smaller  men,  the 
fry  of  Grub  Street,  degraded  it  by  using  it  in  the  same  way, 
only  in  a  baser  manner.  Their  flattery  was  as  abject  as  their 
abuse  was  shameless,  and  both  were  stupid.  They  received 
and  deserved  the  merciless  lashing  which  Pope  was  soon  to 
give  them  in  the  Dunciad. 

Being  a  party  literature,  it  naturally  came  to  study  and  to 
look  sharply  into  human  character  and  into  human  life  as 
seen  in  the  great  city.  It  discussed  all  the  varieties  of  social 
life,  and  painted  town  society  more  vividly  than  was  done  be- 
fore or  has  been-  since;  and  it  was  so  wholly  taken  up  with  this 
that  country  life  and  its  interests,  except  in  the  writings  of 
Addison,  were  scarcely  touched  by  it  at  all.  The  society  of  the 
day  was  one  in  which  all  subjects  of  intellectual  and  scientific 
inquiry  were  eagerly  debated,  and  the  wit  of  this  society  was 
stimulated  by  its  party  spirit.  Its  literature  reflected  this  in- 
tellectual excitement,  and  at  no  time  in  our  history  was  literary 
work  so  vigorous  and  masculine  on  the  various  problems  of 
thought  and  knowledge.  Criticism  being  so  active,  the  form 
in  Avhicli  thought  was  expressed  was  now  especially  dwelt  on, 
and  the  result  was,  that  the  style  of  English  prose  became  for 
the  first  time  absolutely  simple  and  clear,  and  English  verse 
reached  a  neatness  of  expression  and  a  closeness  of  thought 


206         Literature  of  Period  VL,  1660-1745. 

as  exquisite  as  it  was  artificial.  At  the  same  time,  and  for  the 
same  reasons,  Nature,  Passion,  and  Imagination  decayed  in 
poetry." 

Bibliography.  Hobbes.— I.  Disraeli's  Quarrels  of  Authors;  Grote^s  Minor  Works; 
Hazlitt's  Literary  Remains;  Tulloch  Rat.  Theology  in  Eng.;  Contem.  Rev.,  v,  7, 
1868;  West.  Rev.,  v.  87,  1867. 

Locke.— T.Forster's  Original  Letters  of  with  Sketch  of  Writings  and  Opinions; 
King's  Life  of;  Sir  J.  Mackintosh's  Miscel.  Works;  R.  Vaughn's  Essays;  Eng.  Men 
of  Let.  Series;  Lewes'  Hist,  of  Philosophy;  Ed.  Rev.,  v.  99, 

From  Locke's  Conduct  of  the  Understanding. 

Those  who  have  read  of  everything  are  thought  to  understand  every- 
thing too,  but  it  is  not  always  so.  Heading  furnishes  the  mind  only 
with  materials  of  knowledge,  it  is  thinking  [whicli]  makes  what  we 
read  ours.  We  are  of  the  ruminating  kind,  and  it  is  not  enough  to 
cram  ourselves  with  a  great  load  of  collections;  unless  we  chew  them 
over  again,  they  will  not  give  us  strength  and  nourisliment.  There  are 
indeed  in  some  writers  visible  instances  of  deep  thoughts,  close  and 
acute  reasoning,  and  ideas  well  pursued.  The  light  these  would  give 
would  be  of  great  use,  if  their  readers  would  observe  and  imitate  them; 
all  the  rest  at  best  are  but  particulars  fit  to  be  turned  into  knowledge; 
but  that  can  be  done  only  by  our  own  meditation,  and  examining  the 
reach,  force,  and  coherence  of  what  is  said;  and  then,  as  far  as  we  ap- 
prehend and  see  the  connection  of  ideas,  so  far  it  is  ours;  without 
that  it  is  but  so  much  loose  matter  floating  in  our  brain.  The  memory 
may  be  stored,  but  the  judgment  is  little  better,  and  the  stock  of  knowl- 
edge not  increased,  by  being  able  to  repeat  what  others  have  said  or 
produce  the  arguments  we  have  found  in  them.  Such  a  knowledge  as 
this  is  but  knowledge  by  hearsay,  and  the  ostentation  of  it  is  at  best  but 
talking  by  rote,  and  very  often  upon  weak  and  wrong  principles. 

Books  and  reading  are  looked  upon  to  be  the  great  helps  of  the  under- 
standing and  instruments  of  knowledge,  as  it  must  be  allowed  that  they 
are;  and  yet  I  beg  leave  to  question  wliether  these  do  not  prove  a  hin- 
drance to  many,  and  keep  several  bookish  men  from  attaining  to  solid 
and  true  knowledge.  This  I  think  I  may  be  permitted  to  say,  that  there 
is  no  part  wherein  the  understanding  needs  a  more  careful  and  wary 
conduct  than  in  the  use  of  books;  without  which  they  will  prove  rather 
innocent  amusements  than  profitable  employments  of  our  time,  and 
bring  but  small  additions  to  our  knowledge. 

There  is  not  seldom  to  be  found  even  amongst  those  who  aim  at 
knowledge  [those]  who  with  an  unwearied  industry  employ  their  whole 


Prose — Locke's,  207 


time  in  books,  wiio  scarce  allow  themselves  time  to  eat  or  sleep,  but  read 
and  read  and  read  on,  but  yet  make  no  great  advances  in  real  knowledge, 
though  there  be  no  defect  in  their  intellectual  faculties  to  which  their 
little  progress  can  be  imputed.  The  mistake  here  is,  that  it  is  usually 
supposed  that,  by  reading,  the  author's  knowledge  is  transfused  into  the 
reader's  understanding;  aud  so  it  is,  but  not  by  bare  reading,  but  by 
reading  and  understanding  what  he  writ.  Whereby  I  mean  not  barely 
comprehending  what  is  affirmed  or  denied  in  each  proposition,  though 
that  great  readers  do  not  always  think  themselves  concerned  precisely 
to  do,  but  to  see  and  follow  the  train  of  his  reasonings,  observe  the 
strength  and  clearness  of  their  connection,  and  examine  upon  what  they 
bottom.  Without  this  a  man  may  read  the  discourses  of  a  very  rational 
author,  writ  in  a  language  and  in  propositions  that  he  very  well  under- 
stands, and  yet  acquire  not  one  jot  of  his  knowledge;  which  consist- 
ing only  in  the  perceived,  certain,  or  probable  connection  of  the  ideas 
made  use  of  in  his  reasonings,  the  reader's  knowledge  is  no  farther 
increased  than  he  perceives  that  so  much  as  he  sees  of  this  con- 
nection so  much  he  knows  of  the  truth  or  probability  of  that  author's 
opinions. 

All  that  he  relies  on  without  this  perception  he  takes  upon  trust,  upon 
the  author's  credit,  without  any  knowledge  of  it  at  all.  This  makes  me 
not  at  all  wonder  to  see  some  men  so  abound  in  citations,  and  build  so 
much  upon  authorities,  it  being  the  sole  foundation  on  which  they 
bottom  most  of  their  own  tenets;  so  that  in  effect  they  have  but  a  second- 
hand or  implicit  knowledge,  i.e.,  are  in  the  right  if  such  an  one  from 
whom  they  borrowed  it  were  in  the  right  in  that  opinion  which  they 
took  from  him,  which  indeed  is  no  knowledge  at  all.  Writers  of  this  or 
former  ages  may  begood  witnesses  of  matters  of  fact  which  they  deliver, 
which  we  may  do  well  to  take  upon  their  authority ;  but  their  credit 
can  go  no  farther  than  this,  it  cannot  at  all  affect  the  truth  and  false- 
hood of  opinions,  which  have  no  other  sort  of  trial  but  reason  and  proof, 
which  they  themselves  make  use  of  to  make  themselves  knowing,  and 
so  must  others  too  that  will  partake  in  their  knowledge. 

Indeed,  it  is  an  advantage  that  they  have  been  at  the  pains  to  find 
out  the  proofs,  and  lay  them  in  that  order  that  may  show  the  truth  or 
probability  of  their  conclusions:  and  for  this  lye  owe  them  great  ac- 
knowledgments for  saving  us  the  pains  in  searching  out  those  proofs 
which  they  have  collected  for  us,  and  which  possibly,  after  all  our  pains, 
we  might  not  have  found,  nor  been  able  to  have  set  them  in  so  good  a  light 
as  that  which  they  left  them  us  in.  Upon  this  account  we  are  mightily 
beholding  to  judicioils  writers  of  all  ages  for  those  discoveries  and  dis- 


208         Literature  of  Period  VI.,  1660-1745. 

courses  they  have  left  behind  them  for  our  instruction,  if  we  know  how 
to  make  a  right  use  of  them;  which  is  not  to  run  them  over  in  a  hasty 
perusal,  and  perhaps  lodge  their  opinions  or  some  remarkable  passages 
in  our  memories,  but  to  enter  into  their  reasonings,  examine  their  proofs, 
and  then  judge  of  the  truth  or  falsehood,  probability  or  improbability 
of  what  they  advance,  not  by  any  opinion  we  have  entertained  of  the 
author,  but  by  the  evidence  he  produces,  and  the  conviction  he  affords 
us,  drawn  from  things  themselves.  Knowing  is  seeing,  and,  if  it  be  so, 
it  is  madness  to  persuade  ourselves  that  we  do  so  by  another  man's  eyes, 
let  him  use  ever  so  many  words  to  tell  us  that  what  he  asserts  is  very 
visible.  Till  we  ourselves  see  it  with  our  own  eyes,  and  perceive  it  by 
our  own  understandings,  we  are  as  much  in  the  dark  and  as  void  of 
knowledge  as  before,  let  us  believe  any  learned  author  as  much  as  we 
will. 

Euclid  and  Archimedes  are  allowed  to  be  knowing,  and  to  have  de- 
monstrated what  they  say;  and  yet,  whoever  shall  read  over  their  writings 
without  perceiving  the  connection  of  their  proofs,  and  seeing  what  they 
show,  though  he  may  understand  all  their  words,  yet  he  is  not  the  more 
knowing;  he  may  believe  indeed,  but  does  not  know  what  they  say, 
and  so  is  not  advanced  one  jot  in  mathematical  knowledge  by  all  the 
reading  of  those  approved  mathematicians. 


Lksson  38, 

Alexander  Pope.— ^^  Pope  absorbed  and  reflected  all  the 
elements  spoken  of  under  party  liieratiire.  Born  in  1688,  he 
wrote  excellent  verse  at  twelve  years  of  age;  the  Pastorals 
appeared  in  1709,  and  two  years  afterwards  he  took  full  rank 
as  critical  poet  in  the  Essay  on  Criticism,  1711.  The  next 
year  saw  the  first  cast  of  his  Rape  of  the  Loch,  the  '  epos  of 
society  under  Queen  Anne/  and  the  most  brilliant  play  of  wit 
in  English.     This  closed  what  we  may  call  h\%  first  period. 

He  now  became  known  to  Swift  and  to  Henry  St. 
John,  Lord  Bolingbroke,  a  statesman  who  was  also  a  writer. 
With  these  and  with  Gay,  Parnell,  Prior,  and  Arbuthnot, 
Pope  formed  the  Scriblerus  Club,  and  soon  rose  into  great 
fame  by  his  Translation  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  under 
George  I.,  1715-1725,  for  which  he  received  7,000  pounds. 


Poetry — Pope  and  Others,  209 

He  now,  being  at  ease,  liyed  at  Twickenham,  where  he  had 
completed  his  Homer.  It  was  here,  retired  from  the  literary 
mob,  that  in  bitter  scorn  of  the  many  petty  scribblers,  he 
wrote  in  1728  the  Dunciadf  altered  and  enlarged  in  1741.  It 
was  the  fiercest  of  his  satires  and  it  closes  his  second  period, 
which  took  much  of  its  savageness  from  the  influence  of  Swift. 

The  third  phase  of  Pope's  literary  life  was  closely  linked  to 
his  friend  Bolingbroke.  It  was  in  conversation  with  him  that 
he  originated  the  Essay  on  Man,  1732-4,  and  the  Imitations 
of  Horace.  The  Moral  Essays,  or  Epistles  to  men  and  women, 
were  written  to  praise  those  whom  he  loved,  and  to  satirize 
the  bad  poets  and  the  social  follies  of  the  day,  and  all  who 
disliked  him  or  his  party.  In  the  last  few  years  of  his  life. 
Bishop  Warburton,  the  writer  of  the  Legation  of  Moses  and 
editor  of  Shakespeare,  helped  him  to  fit  the  Moral  Essays 
into  the  plan  of  which  the  Essay  on  Man  formed  part.  War- 
burton  was  Pope's  last  great  friend;  but  almost  his  only  old 
friend.  By  1740  nearly  all  the  members  of  his  literary  circle 
were  dead,  and  a  new  race  of  poets  and  writers  had  grown  up. 
In  1744  Pope  died. 

He  is  our  greatest  master  in  didactic  poetry,  not  so  much 
because  of  the  worth  of  the  thoughts  as  because  of  the  masterly 
form  in  which  they  are  put.  The  Essay  on  Man,  though  its 
philosophy  is  poor  and  not  his  own,  is  crowded  with  lines  that 
have  passed  into  daily  use.  The  Essay  on  Criticism  is  equally 
full  of  critical  precepts  put  with  exquisite  skill.  The  Satires 
and  Epistles  are  also  didactic.  They  set  virtue  and  cleverness 
over  against  vice  and  stupidity,  and  they  illustrate  both  by 
types  of  character,  in  the  drawing  of  which  Pope  is  without  a 
rival  in  our  literature. 

His  translation  of  Homer  is  made  with  great  literary  art, 
but  for  that  very  reason  it  does  not  make  us  feel  the  simplicity 
and  directness  of  Homer.  It  has  neither  the  manner  of  Ho- 
mer nor  the  spirit  of  the  Greek  life,  just  as  Pope's  descriptions 
of  nature  have  neither  the  manner  nor  the  spirit  of  nature. 


210         Literature  of  Period  VL,  1660-1745. 

The  heroic  couplet,  in  which  he  wrote  his  translation  and 
nearly  all  his  work,  he  used  in  various  subjects  with  a  correct- 
ness that  has  never  been  surpassed,  but  it  sometimes  fails 
from  being  too  smooth,  and  its  cadences  too  regular. 

Finally,  he  was  a  true  artist,  hating  those  who  degraded  his 
art,  and,  at  a  time  when  men  followed  it  for  money  and  place 
and  the  applause  of  the  club  and  of  the  town,  he  loved  it  faith- 
fully to  tlie  end  for  its  own  sake." 

"In  two  directions,  in  that  of  condensing  and  pointing  his  meaning, 
and  in  that  of  drawing  the  utmost  harmony  of  sound  out  of  the  couplet, 
Pope  carried  versification  far  beyond  the  point  at  which  it  was  when 
he  took  it  up.  Because,  after  Pope,  his  tricli  of  versification  became 
common  property,  we  are  apt  to  overlook  the  merit  of  the  first  inven- 
tion. But  epigrammatic  force  and  musical  flow  are  not  the  sole  elements 
of  Pope's  reputation.  The  matter  which  he  worked  up  into  his  verse 
has  a  permanent  value,  and  is  indeed  one  of  the  most  precious  heirlooms 
which  the  eighteenth  century  has  bequeathed  us. 

And  here  we  must  distinguish  between  Pope  when  he  attempts  gen- 
eral themes,  and  Pope  when  he  draws  that  which  he  knew — the  social 
life  of  his  own  day.  When  in  the  Pastorals  he  writes  of  natural  beauty, 
in  the  Essay  on  Criticism  he  lays  down  the  rules  of  writing,  in  the  Essay 
on  Man  he  versifies  Leibnitzian  optimism,  he  does  not  rise  above  the 
herd  of  eighteenth  century  writers,  except  in  so  far  as  his  skill  of  lan- 
guage is  more  accomplished  than  theirs.  It  is  where  he  comes  to  describe 
the  one  thing  which  he  knew  and  about  which  he  felt  sympathy  and 
antipathy— the  court  and  town  of  his  time,  in  the  Moral  Essays,  and  the 
Satires  and  Epistles,  that  Pope  found  the  proper  material  on  which  to 
lay  out  his  elaborate  workmanship.  Where  he  moralizes  or  deduces 
general  principles,  he  is  superficial,  second-hand,  and  one-sided  as  the 
veriest  scribbler.  Wherever  he  recedes  from  what  was  immediately  close 
to  him,  the  manners,  passions,  prejudices,  sentiments  of  his  own  day, 
Pope  has  only  such  merit— little  enough— as  wit  divorced  from  truth 
can  have.  He  is  at  his  best  only  where  the  delicacies  and  subtle  felici- 
ties of  his  diction  are  employed  to  embody  some  transient  phase  of 
contemporary  feeling.  The  complex  Aveb  of  society,  with  its  indefinable 
shades,  its  minute  personal  affinities  and  repulsions,  is  the  world  in 
which  Pope  lived  and  moved,  and  which  he  has  drawn  in  a  few  vivid 
lines,  with  a  keenness  and  intensity  with  which  there  is  nothing  in  our 
literature  that  can  compare." — Mark  Pattison. 


Poetry — Pope  and  Others,  211 

The  Minor  Poets. — ^'  The  minor  poets  who  surrounded 
Pope  in  the  first  two  thirds  of  his  life  did  not  write  in  his  man- 
ner nor  approach  his  genius.  Thomas  Parj^ell  is  known  by 
his  Hermit,  and  both  he  and  JoHiq"  Gay,  in  his  six  pastorals, 
Tlie  SliepliercUs  Week,  1714,  touched  on  country  life.  Swift's 
poetical  satires  were  coarse  but  always  hit  home,  Addison  cel- 
ebrated the  battle  of  Blenheim  in  the  Campaign,  and  his  sweet 
grace  is  found  in  some  devotional  pieces;  while  Prior's  charm- 
ing ease  is  best  shown  in  the  light  narrative  poetry  which  I 
may  say  began  with  him  in  the  reign  of  William  III.  The 
Black-eyed  Susan  of  Gay  and  Tickell's  Colin  and  Lucy  and'^ 
Carey's  Sally  in  our  Alley  and  afterwards  Goldsmith's  Ed- 
tvin  and  Angelina  mark  the  rise  of  the  modern  ballad;  a  class 
of  poetry  wholly  apart  from  the  genius  of  Pope. 

The  influence  of  the  didactic  and  satirical  poetry  of  the  criti- 
cal school  is  found  in  Johnson's  two  satires  on  the  manners  of 
his  time,  the  London,  1738,  and  the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes, 
1749;  in  Robert  Blair's  dull  poem  of  Tlie  Crave,  1743;  in 
Edward  Youis^g's  Night  Thoughts,  1743,  a  poem  on  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul,  and  in  his  satires  on  The  Universal 
Passion  of  Fame;  in  the  tame  work  of  Richard  Savage,  John- 
son's poor  friend;  and  in  the  short-lived,  but  vigorous,  satires 
of  Charles  Churchill,  who  died  in  1764,  twenty  years  after 
Savage.  The  Pleasures  of  the  hnagination,  1744,  by  Mark 
Ake:n'SIDe,  belongs  also  in  spirit  to  the  time  of  Queen  Anne, 
and  was  suggested  by  Addison's  essays  in  the  Spectator  on 
imagination. 

The  Poetry  of  Natural  Description.— We  have  found 
already  traces  in  the  poets  of  a  pleasure  in  rural  things  and 
the  emotions  they  awakened.  This  appears  chiefly  among  the 
Puritans,  who,  because  they  hated  the  politics  of  the  Stuarts 
before  the  civil  war  and  the  corruption  of  the  court  after  it, 
lived  apart  from  the  town  in  quietude.  The  best  natural  de- 
scription we  have  before  the  time  of  Pope  is  that  of  two  Puri- 
tans, Marvell  and  Milton. 


212         Literature  of  Period  VL,  1660-1745. 

But  the  first  poem  devoted  to  natural  description  appeared 
while  Pope  was  yet  alive,  in  the  very  midst  of  a  vigorous 
town  poetry.  It  was  the  Seasons,  1726-30;  and  it  is  curious, 
remembering  what  I  have  said  about  the  peculiar  turn  of  the 
Scotch  for  natural  description,  that  it  was  the  work  of  James 
THOMSOiiT,  a  Scotchman.  It  described  the  scenery  and  coun- 
try life  of  Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  and  Winter.  He  wrote 
with  his  eye  upon  their  scenery,  and  even  when  he  wrote  of 
it  in  his  room,  it  was  with  'a  recollected  love.'  The  descrip- 
tions were  too  much  like  catalogues,  the  very  fault  of  the  pre- 
vious Spotcli  poets,  and  his  style  was  always  heavy  and  often 
cold,  but  he  was  the  first  poet  who  led  the  English  people 
into  that  new  world  of  nature  in  poetry,  which  has  moved  and 
enchanted  us  in  the  work  of  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  Keats,  and 
Tennyson,  but  which  was  entirely  impossible  for  Pope  to  un- 
derstand." 

BiBLioGRAPHr.  Pope.— Elwin's -Li/e  of ;  R  Bell's  and  S  Johnson's  Lireso/E'ng. 
Poets;  Ward's  Anthology  ;  De  Quincey's  Biog.  Essays  and  Essays  on  the  Poets ; 
I.  Disraeli's  Quarrels  of  Authors  ;  L.  Stephen's  Hours  in  a  Library ;  Eng.  Men  of 
Let.  Series;  J.  T.  Fields'  Yesterdays  with  Authors;  W.  Howitt's  Homes  of  Brit. 
Poets ;  Thackeray's  Eng.  Humorists  ;  Lowell's  My  Study  Windows  ;  Fraser's  Mag., 
V.  48,  1853,  and  v.  61,  1860;  Eel.  Mag.,  Dec,  1847;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  75, 1872. 

Thomsox.  — Erskine's  Essays  upon;  Howitt's  Homes  of  Brit.  Poets  ;  S.  Johnson's 
Lives  of  Eng.  Poets ;  J.  Wilson's  Recreations ;  Eel.  Mag.,  v.  29, 1853;  New  Monthly, 
June,  1855,  and  June,  1858. 

HiESSOisr  39. 

From  Pope's  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arhuthnot. 
P.  Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John!  fatigued,  I  said, 
Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I'm  sick,  I'm  dead. 
The  dog-star  rages !  nay,  'tis  past  a  doubt, 
All  Bedlam  or  Parnassus  is  let  out: 
Fire  in  each  eye  and  papers  in  each  hand, 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 
What  walks  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades  can  hide? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my  grot  they  glide. 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge. 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the  barge. 


Poetry — Pope's.  213 


No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free, 
Ev'n  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath-day  to  me. 

Is  there  a  parson  much  be-mus'd  in  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk  foredoom'd  his  father's  soul  to  cross, 
Who  pens  a  stanza  when  he  should  engross? 
Is  there  who,  lock'd  from  ink  and  paper,  scrawls 
With  desp'rate  charcoal  round  his  darken'd  walls? 
All  fly  to  Twit'nam,  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 

Friend  to  my  life,  (which  did  not  you  prolong 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song) 
What  drop  or  nostrum  can  this  plague  remove? 
Or  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath  or  love? 
A  dire  dilemma!  either  way  I'm  sped, 
If  foes,  they  write,  if  friends,  they  read  me  dead. 
Seiz'd  and  tied  down  to  judge,  how  wretched  I! 
Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie: 
To  laugh  were  want  of  goodness  and  of  grace, 
And  to  be  grave  exceeds  all  pow'r  of  face. 
I  sit  with  sad  civility,  I  read 
With  honest  anguish  and  an  aching  head; 
And  drop  at  last,  but  in  unwilling  ears, 
This  saving  counsel,  "  Keep  your  piece  nine  years." 
"  Nine  years!"  cries  he,  who  high  in  Drury-lane 
Lull'd  by  soft  zephyrs  through  the  broken  pane. 
Rhymes  ere  he  wakes,  and  prints  before  term  ends, 
Oblig'd  by  hunger  and  request  of  friends; 
"The  piece,  you  think,  is  incorrect?  why  take  it, 
I'm  all  submission,  what  you'd  have  it  make  it." 
Three  things  another's  modest  wishes  bound, — 
My  friendship  and  a  prologue  and  ten  pound. 

Why  did  I  write?  what  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipt  me  in  ink, — my  parents'  or  my  own?    / 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisp'd  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came. 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade, 
No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobey'd ; 
The  muse  but  serv'd  to  ease  some  friend,  not  wife, 
To  help  me  through  this  long  disease,  my  life, 


214         Literature  of  Period   VL,  1660-1745. 

To  second,  Arbuthnot,  thy  art  and  care 
And  teach  the  being  you  preserv'd  to  bear. 

Soft  were  my  numbers;  who  could  take  offence 
While  pure  description  held  the  place  of  sense? 
Like  gentle  Fanny's  was  ray  flow'ry  theme, 
A  painted  mistress  or  a  purling  stream. 
Yet  then  did  Gildon  draw  his  venal  quill; 
I  wish'd  the  man  a  dinner,  and  sate  still. 
Yet  then  did  Dennis  rave  in  furious  fret; 
I  never  answer'd,  I  was  not  in  debt. 
If  want  provok'd,  or  madness  made  them  print, 
I  wag'd  no  war  with  Bedlam  or  the  Mint. 

Did  some  more  sober  critic  come  abroad; 
If  wrong,  I  smiled;  if  right,  I  kiss'd  the  rod. 
Pains,  reading,  study  are  their  just  pretence, 
And  all  they  want  is  spirit,  taste,  and  sense. 
Commas  and  points  they  set  exactly  right, 
And  'twere  a  sin  to  rob  them  of  their  mite. 
Yet  ne'er  one  sprig  of  laurel  grac'd  these  ribalds. 
From  slashing  Bentley  down  to  piddling  Tibalds. 
Each  wight  who  reads  not,  and  but  scans  and  spells. 
Each  word-catcher  that  lives  on  syllables, 
Ev'n  such  small  critics  some  regard  may  claim, 
Preserv'd  in  Milton's  or  in  Shakespeare's  name. 
Pretty !  in  amber  to  observe  the  forms 
Of  hairs  or  straws  or  dirt  or  grubs  or  worms! 
The  things,  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare. 
But  wonder  how  the  d 1  they  got  there. 

Were  others  angry,  I  excused  them  too ; 
Well  might  they  rage,  I  gave  them  but  their  due. 
A  man's  true  merit  'tis  not  hard  to  find ; 
But  each  man's  secret  standard  in  his  mind. 
That  casting-weight  pride  adds  to  emptiness^ — 
This  who  can  gratify?  for  who  can  guess? 
The  bard  whom  pilfered  pastorals  renown. 
Who  turns  a  Persian  tale  for  half  a  crown, 
Just  writes  to  make  his  barrenness  appear. 
And  strains  from  hard-bound  brains  eight  lines  a  year; 
He  who,  still  wanting,  tho'  he  lives  on  theft. 
Steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing  left; 


Poetry — Pope's.  215 


And  he  who  now  to  sense,  now  nonsense  leaning, 
Means  not,  but  bhinders  round  about  a  meaning; 
And  he  whose  fustian's  so  sublimely  bad 
It  is  not  poetry  but  prose  run  mad; — 
All  these  m}'-  modest  satire  bade  translate 
And  own'd  that  nine  such  poets  made  a  Tate. 
How  did  they  fume  and  stamp  and  roar  and  chafe! 
And  swear  not  Addison  himself  was  safe. 

Peace  to  all  such!  but  were  there  one^  whose  flres 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires; 
Blest  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to  please. 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease ; 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone, 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,'^  no  brother  near  the  throne, 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous,  eyes, 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caus'd  himself  to  rise ; 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 
And  without  sneering  teach  the  rest  to  sneer; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike. 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dishke ; 
Alike  reserv'd  to  blame  or  to  commend, 
A  timorous  foe  and  a  suspicious  friend; 
Dreading  ev'n  fools,  by  flatterers  besieg'd, 
And  so  obligiog  that  he  ne'er  obliged ; 
Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws. 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause; 
While  wits  and  templars  ev'ry  sentence  raise 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise: — 
Who  but  must  laugh  if  such  a  man  there  be? 
Who  would  not  weep  if  Atticus  were  he? 

Oh!  let  me  live  my  own  and  die  so  too! 
(To  live  and  die  is  all  I  have  to  do) 
Maintain  a  poet's  dignity  and  ease. 
And  see  what  friends  and  read  what  books  I  please; 
Above  a  patron,  tho'  I  condescend 
Sometimes  to  call  a  minister  my  friend. 
I  was  not  born  for  courts  or  great  affairs ; 
I  pay  my  debts,  believe,  and  say  my  prayers; 

^  This  is  Pope's  famous  satire  upon  Addison.        »  What  is  the  allusion? 


216         Literature  of  Period   VL,  1660-1745. 

Can  sleep  without  a  poem  in  my  liead, 
Nor  know  if  Dennis  be  alive  or  dead. 

A  lasli  like  mine  no  honest  man  shall  dread, 
But  all  such  babbling  blockheads  in  his  stead. 
Let  Sporus^  tremble.    A.  What?  that  thing  of  silk, 
Sporus,  that  mere  white  curd  of  ass's  milk? 
Satire  or  sense,  alas!  can  Sporus  feel? 
Who  breaks  a  butterfly  upon  a  wheel? 
P.     Yet  let  me  flap  this  bug  with  gilded  wings. 

Whose  buzz  the  witty  and  the  fair  annoys, 

Yet  wit  ne'er  tastes,  and  beauty  ne'er  enjoys. 

So  well-bred  spaniels  civilly  delight 

In  mumbling  of  the  game  they  dare  not  bite. 

Eternal  smiles  his  emptiness  betray, 

As  shallow  streams  run  dimpling  all  the  way, 

Whether  in  florid  impotence  he  speaks. 

And,  as  the  prompter  breathes  the  puppet  squeaks; 

Or  at  the  ear  of  Eve,  familiar  toad, 

Half  froth,  half  venom,  spits  himself  abroad 

In  puns  or  politics  or  tales  or  lies 

Or  spite  or  smut  or  rhymes  or  blasphemies. 

His  wit  all  see-saw,  between  that  and  this. 

Now  high,  now  low,  now  master  up,  now  miss, 

And  he  himself  one  vile  antithesis. 

Amphibious  thing!  that,  acting  either  part, 

The  trifling  head  or  the  corrupted  heart, 

Fop  at  the  toilet,  flatterer  at  the  board. 

Now  trips  a  lady,  and  now  struts  a  lord. 

Eve's  temper  thus  the  rabbins  have  express'd 

A  cherub's  face,  a  reptile  all  the  rest. 

Beauty  that  shocks  you,  parts  that  none  will  trust, 

Wit  that  can  creep,  and  pride  that  licks  the  dust. 

Not  fortune's  worshipper  nor  fashion's  fool, 
Not  lucre's  madman  nor  ambition's  tool. 
Not  proud  nor  servile,  be  one  poet's  praise 
That,  if  he  pleas'd,  he  pleas'd  by  manly  w^ays; 
That  flattery  ev'n  to  kings  he  held  a  shame. 
And  thought  a  lie  in  verse  or  prose  the  same. 

^  Lord  Hervey. 


Poetry— Pop^s,  217 


That  not  in  fancy's  maze  he  wander'd  long, 
But  stoop'd  to  truth  and  moraliz'd  his  song; 
That  not  for  fame  but  virtue's  better  end 
He  stood  the  furious  foe,  the  timid  friend, 
The  damning  critic,  half-approving  wit, 
The  coxcomb  hit  or  fearing  to  be  hit; 
Laughed  at  the  loss  of  friends  he  never  had, 
The  dull,  the  proud,  the  wicked,  and  the  mad; 
The  distant  threats  of  vengeance  on  his  head, 
The  blow  unfelt,  the  tear  he  never  shed ; 
The  tale  reviv'd,  the  lie  so  oft  o'erthrown, 
Th'  imputed  trash,  and  duluess  not  his  own; 
The  morals  blacken'd  when  the  writings  'scape, 
The  libell'd  person  and  the  pictur'd  shape; 
Abuse,  on  all  he  lov'd  or  lov'd  him,  spread, 
A  friend  in  exile,  or  a  father  dead ; 
The  whisper,  that,  to  greatness  still  too  near. 
Perhaps  yet  vibrates  on  his  sovereign's  ear; — 
Welcome  for  thee,  fair  virtue,  all  the  past; 
For  thee,  fair  virtue,  welcome  ev'n  the  last! 

Of  gentle  blood  (part  shed  in  honor's  cause, 
While  yet  in  Britain  honor  had  applause,) 
Each  parent  sprung—  A.  What  fortune,  pray?  F.  Their  own, 
And  better  got  than  Bestia's  from  the  throne. 
Born  to  no  pride,  inheriting  no  strife, 
Nor  marrying  discord  in  a  noble  wife. 
Stranger  to  civil  and  religious  rage, 
The  good  man  walk'd  innoxious  through  his  age. 
No  courts  he  saw,  no  suits  would  ever  try, 
Nor  dar'd  an  oath,  nor  hazarded  a  lie. 
Unlearn'd,  he  knew  no  schoolman's  subtle  art, 
No  language  but  the  language  of  the  heart. 
By  nature  honest,  by  experience  wise, 
Healthy  by  temperance  and  by  exercise, 
His  life,  tho'  long,  to  sickness  pass'd  unknown 
His  death  was  instant,  and  without  a  groan. 
Oh!  grant  me  thus  to  live,  and  thus  to  die. 
Who  sprung  from  kings  shall  know  less  joy  than  I. 

O  Friend,  may  each  domestic  bliss  be 'thine  1 
Be  no  unpleasing  melancholy  mine. 


218         Literature  of  Period  F/.,  1660-1745. 

Me,  let  tlie  tender  office  long  engage, 

To  rock  the  cradle  of  reposing  age, 

With  lenient  arts  extend  a  mother's  breath, 

Make  languor  smile  and  smooth  the  bed  of  death, 

Explore  the  thought,  explain  the  asking  eye. 

And  keep  awhile  one  parent  from  the  sky ! 

On  cares  like  these,  if  length  of  days  attend. 

May  heaven,  to  bless  those  days,  preserve  my  friend! 

Preserve  him  social,  cheerful,  and  serene, 

And  just  as  rich  as  when  he  serv'd  a  Queen. 

A.  Whether  that  blessing  be  denied  or  giv'n, 

Thus  far  was  right,  the  rest  belongs  to  Heav'n. 


HiESSOlST   40. 

Prose  Literature. — ^'  The  prose  literature  of  Pope's  time 
collects  itself  round  four  great  names,  Swift,  Defoe,  Addison, 
and  Bishop  Berkeley,  and  they  all  exhibit  those  elements  of 
the  age  of  Avhich  I  have  spoken. 

JojSTATHAN  Swift,  born  in  1667,  was  the  keenest  of  political 
partisans.  The  Battle  of  the  Boohs,  or  the  literary  fight 
about  the  Letters  of  Phalaris,  and  the  Tale  of  a  Tiib,  a  satire 
on  the  Presbyterians  and  the  Papists,  made  his  reputation  in 
1704  and  established  him  as  a  satirist.  Swift  left  the  Whig 
for  the  Tory  party,  and  his  political  tracts  brought  him  Court 
fayor  and  literary  fame.  On  the  fall  of  the  Tory  party  at 
the  accession  of  George  T.,  he  retired  to  the  Deanery  of  St. 
Patrick  in  Ireland  an  embittered  man,  and  the  Drapiei'^s  Let- 
ters, 1724,  written  against  Wood's  halfpence,  gained  him 
popularity  in  a  country  that  lie  hated.  In  1726  his  inven- 
tive genius,  his  savage  satire,  and  his  cruel  indignation  with 
life  were  all  shown  in  Gulliver^ s  Travels.  The  voyage  to  Lil- 
liput  and  Brobdingnag  satirized  the  politics  and  manners  of 
England  and  Europe;  that  to  Laputa  mocked  the  philoso- 
phers; and  the  last,  to  the  country  of  the  Houyhnhnms, 
lacerated    and    defiled  the  whole  body  of   humanity.     No- 


Prose — Swift,  Addison,  and  Others.         219 

English  is  more  robust  than  Swift's,  no  wit  more  scathing,  no 
life  in  private  and  public  more  sad  and  proud,  no  death  more 
pitiable.     He  died  in  1745  hopelessly  insane. 

Dakiel  Defoe,  1661-1731,  was  almost  as  vigorous  a  polit- 
ical writer  as  Swift,  but  he  will  live  in  literature  by  Rohinson 
Crusoe,  1719.  In  it  he  equalled  Gulliver's  Travels  in  truth- 
ful representation,  and  excelled  it  in  invention.  The  story 
lives  and  charms  from  day  to  day.  With  his  other  tales  it 
makes  him  our  first  fine  writer  of  fiction.  But  none  of  his 
stories  are  true  novels;  that  is,  they  have  no  plot  to  the  work- 
ing out  of  which  the  characters  and  the  events  contribute. 
They  form  the  transition,  however,  from  the  slight  tale  and 
the  romance  of  the  Elizabethan  time  to  the  finished  novel  of 
Richardson  and  Fielding. 

Metaphysical  Literature  was  enriched  by  the  work  of  Bishop 
Bekkeley,  1684-1753.  His  Minute  FJiilosopher  and  other 
works  questioned  the  real  existence  of  matter,  and  founded 
on  the  denial  of  it  an  answer  to  the  English  Deists,  round 
whom  in  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  centred  the 
struggle  between  the  claims  of  natural  and  of  revealed  religion. 
Shaftesbury,  Bolingbroke,  and  Wollaston,  Tindal,  Toland,  and 
Collins,  on  the  Deists'  side,  were  opposed  by  Clarke,  by  Bentley, 
whose  name  is  best  known  as  the  founder  of  the  true  school 
of  classical  criticism,  and  by  Bishop  Warburton. 

I  may  mention  here  a  social  satire.  The  Fable  of  the  Bees. 
by  MAi^DEViLLE,  half  poem,  half  prose  dialogue,  and  finished 
in  1729.  It  tried  to  prove  that  the  vices  of  society  are  the 
foundation  of  civilization,  and  is  the  first  of  a  new  set  of  books 
which  marked  the  rise  in  England  of  the  bold  speculations  on 
the  nature  and  ground  of  society  which  the  French  Revolu- 
tion afterwards  increased. 

The  Periodical  Essay  is  connected  with  the  names  of  Joseph 
Addison,  1672-1719,  and  Sir  Richard  Steele,  1675-1729. 
This  gay,  light,  and  graceful  kind  of  literature,  differing  from 
such  Essays  as  Bacon's  as  good  conversation  about  a  subject 


220         Literature  of  Period  YL,  1660-1745. 

differs  from  a  clear  analysis  of  all  its  points,  was  begun  in 
France  by  Montaigne  in  1580.  Charles  Cotton,  a  wit  of 
Charles  II. 's  time,  re- translated  Montaigne's  Essays,  and  they 
soon  found  imitators  in  Cowley  and  Sir  W.  Temple.  But  the 
periodical  Essay  was  created  by  Steele  and  Addison.  It  was 
published  three  times  a  week,  then  daily,  and  it  was  anony- 
mous, and  both  these  characters  necessarily  changed  its  form 
from  that  of  an  Essay  of  Montaigne. 

Steele  began  it  in  the  Tatler,  1709,  and  it  treated  of  every- 
thing that  was  going  on  in  the  world.  He  paints  as  a  social 
humorist  the  whole  age  of  Queen  Anne — the  political  and 
literary  disputes,  the  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies,  the  characters 
of  men,  the  humors  of  society,  the  new  book,  the  new  play;  we 
live  in  the  very  streets  and  drawing-rooms  of  old  London. 
Addison  soon  joined  him,  first  in  the  Tatler,  afterwards  in  the 
Spectator,  1711.  His  work  is  more  critical,  literary,  and  di- 
dactic than  his  companion's.  The  characters  he  introduces, 
such  as  Eoger  de  Coverley,  are  finished  studies  after  nature, 
and  their  talk  is  easy  and  dramatic.  No  humor  is  more  fine  and 
tender;  and,  like  Chaucer's,  it  is  never  bitter.  The  style  adds 
to  the  charm,  and  it  seems  to  grow  out  of  the  subjects  treated 
of. 

Addison's  work  was  a  great  one,  lightly  done.  The  Spec- 
tator, the  Guardian,  and  the  Freeliolder,  in  his  hands,  gave  a 
better  tone  to  manners,  and  a  gentler  one  to  political  and  liter- 
ary criticism.  The  essays  published  every  Friday  were  chiefly 
on  literary  subjects,  the  Saturday  essays  chiefly  on  religious 
subjects.  The  former  popularized  literature,  so  that  culture 
spread  among  the  middle  classes  and  crept  down  to  the  coun- 
try; the  latter  popularized  religion.  'I  have  brought,' he  says, 
'  philosophy  out  of  closets  and  libraries,  schools  and  colleges, 
to  dwell  in  clubs  and  assemblies,  at  tea-tables  and  in  coffee- 
houses." 

"Addison,  appearing  at  a  time  when  English  literature  was  at  a  very 
low  ebb,  made  an  impression  which  his  writings  would  not  now  pro- 


Prose— Swift,  Addison,  and  Others,         221 

duce,  and  won  a  reputation  which  was  then  his  due,  but  wliich  has  long 
survived  his  comparative  excellence.  Charmed  by  the  gentle  flow  of 
his  thought, — which,  neither  deep  nor  strong,  neither  subtle  nor  strug- 
gling with  the  obstacles  of  argument,  might  well  flow  easily, — by  his 
lambent  humor,  his  playful  fancy  (he  was  very  slenderly  endowed  with 
imagination),  and  the  healthy  tone  of  his  mind,  the  writers  of  his  own 
generation  and  those  of  the  succeeding  half  century  placed  him  upon  a 
pedestal,  in  his  right  to  which  there  has  since  been  almost  unquestioning 
acquiescence.  He  certainly  did  much  for  English  literature,  and  more 
for  English  morals  and  manners,  which  in  his  day  were  sadly  in  need  of 
elevation  and  refinement.  But,  as  a  writer  of  English,  he  is  not  to  be 
compared,  except  with  great  peril  to  his  reputation,  to  at  least  a  score  of 
men  who  have  flourished  in  the  present  century,  and  some  of  whom  are 
now  living." — R.  O.  Widte. 

"  That  which  chiefly  distinguishes  Addisor^  from  almost  all  the  other 
great  masters  of  ridicule  is  the  grace,  the  nobleness,  the  moral  purity 
which  we  find  even  in  his  merriment.  If,  as  Soame  Jenyns  oddly  ima- 
gined, a  portion  of  the  happiness  of  seraphim  and  just  men  made 
perfect  be  derived  from  an  exquisite  perception  of  the  ludicrous, 
their  mirth  must  surely  be  none  other  than  the  mirth  of  Addison ;  a 
mirth  consistent  with  tender  compassion  for  all  that  is  frail,  and  with 
profound  reverence  for  all  that  is  sublime.  Nothing  great,  nothing 
amiable,  no  moral  duty,  no  doctrine  of  natural  or  revealed  religion  has 
ever  been  associated  by  Addison  w4th  any  degrading  idea.  His  human- 
ity is  without  a  parallel  in  literary  history.  It  may  be  confidently 
aflSrmed  that  he  has  blackened  no  man's  character,  nay,  that  it  would 
be  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  find  in  all  the  volumes  which  he 
has  left  us  a  single  taunt  which  can  be  qalled  ungenerous  or  un- 
kind. " — Macaulay. 

Bibliography.  Swift.— J.  Forster's  Life  of;  Eng.  Men.  of  Let.  Series;  Jeffrey's 
Essays;  S.  Johnson's  Lives  of  Eng.  Poets;  Thackeray's  Eng.  Humorists;  Minto's 
Man.  Eng.  Prose  Lit.;  Ward's  Anthology;  Br.  Quar.  Rev.,  Oct.,  1854;  Black. 
MapT.,  V.  74,  1853;  Eraser's  Mag:.,  v.  61,  1860.  and  v.  76,  1867;  N.  A.  Rev.,  Jan.,  1868; 
N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  51,  1870;  Eel.  Mag.,  May  and  Oct.,  1849. 

Defoe.— W.  Chad  wick's  Li/e  and  Times  of;  J.  Forster's  Hist,  and  Biog.  Essays; 
Minto's  Man.  Eng.  Pr.  Lit.;  L.  Stephen's  Hours  in  a  Library;  Eng.  Men  of  Let. 
Series;  Br.  Quar.  Rev.,  Oct.,  1869;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  101, 1857;  Cornhill  Mag.,  v.  17,  1868. 

Addison.— Minto's  Man.  Eng.  Pr.  Lit.;  Eng.  Men  of  Let.  Series;  Macaulay's  Es- 
says; Howitt's  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Brit.  Poets;  S.  Johnson's  Lives  of  Eng.  Poets; 
Taine's  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.;  Thackeray's  Eng.  Humorists,  and  in  Henry  Esmond; 
N.  A.  Rev.,  V.  79,  1854,-  Eel.  Mag.,  Sept.,  1874,  and  Apr.,  1879. 


222         Literature  of  Period  VL,  1660-1745. 

From  Addison's  Spectator. 

I  have  now  considered  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  under  those  four  great 
heads  of  the  fable,  the  characters,  the  sentiments,  and  the  language;  ana 
have  shown  that  he  excels,  in  general,  under  each  of  these  heads.  I 
hope  that  I  have  made  several  discoveries  which  may  appear  new  even 
to  those  who  are  versed  in  critical  learning.  Were  1  indeed  to  choose 
my  readers,  by  whose  judgment  I  would  stand  or  fall,  they  should  not 
be  such  as  are  acquainted  only  with  the  French  and  Italian  critics,  but 
also  with  the  ancient  and  moderns  who  have  written  in  either  of  the 
learned  languages.  Above  all,  I  would  have  them  well  versed  in  the 
Greek  and  Latin  poets,  without  which  a  man  very  often  fancies  that 
he  understands  a  critic,  when  in  reality  he  does  not  comprehend  his 
meaning. 

It  is  in  criticism,  as  in  all  other  sciences  and  speculations;  one  who 
brings  with  him  any  implicit  notions  and  observations  which  he  has 
made  in  his  reading  of  the  poets,  will  find  his  own  reflections  method- 
ized and  explained,  and  perhaps  several  little  hints,  that  had  passed  in 
his  mind,  perfected  and  improved  in  the  works  of  a  good  critic;  whereas 
one  who  has  not  these  previous  lights  is  very  often  an  utter  stranger  to 
"what  he  reads,  and  apt  to  put  a  wrong  interpretation  upon  it. 

Nor  is  it  sufficient  that  a  man  who  sets  up  for  a  judge  in  criticism 
should  have  perused  the  authors  above-mentioned,  unless  he  has  also  a 
clear  and  logical  head.  Without  this  talent  he  is  perpetually  puzzled 
and  perplexed  amidst  his  own  blunders,  mistakes  the  sense  of  those  he 
would  confute,  or,  if  he  chances  to  think  right,  does  not  know  how  to 
convey  his  thoughts  to  another  with  clearness  and  perspicuity.  Aristotle, 
who  was  the  best  critic,  was  also  one  of  the  best  logicians  that  ever  ap- 
peared in  the  world. 

Mr.  Locke's  Essay  on  The  Human  Understanding  would  be  thought 
a  very'odd  book  for  a  man  to  make  himself  master  of,  who  would  get 
a  reputation  by  critical  wTitings;  though  at  the  same  time  it  is  very 
certain  that  an  author  who  has  not  learned  the  art  of  distinguishing  be- 
tween words  and  things,  and  of  ranging  his  thoughts  and  setting  them 
in  proper  lights,  whatever  notions  he  may  have,  will  lose  himself  in 
confusion  and  obscurity.  I  might  further  observe  that  there  is  not  a 
Greek  or  a  Latin  critic  who  has  not  shown,  even  in  the  style  of  his  criti- 
cisms, that  he  was  a  master  of  all  the  elegance  and  delicacy  of  his  na- 
tive tongue. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  there  is  nothing  more  absurd  than  for  a  man  to  set 
up  for  a  critic,  without  a  good  insight  into  all  the  parts  of  learning; 
"whereas  many  of  those  who  have  endeavored  to  signalize  themselves  by 


Prose— Addison^  s.  223 


works  of  this  nature  among  our  English  writers  are  not  only  defective 
in  the  above-mentioned  particulars  but  plainly  discover  by  the  phrases 
which  they  make  use  of,  and  by  their  confused  way  of  thinking,  that 
they  are  not  acquainted  with  the  most  common  and  ordinary  systems 
of  arts  and  sciences.  A  few  general  rules  extracted  out  of  the  French 
authors,  with  a  certain  cant  of  words,  have  sometimes  set  up  an  illiterate 
heavy  writer  for  a  most  judicious  and  formidable  critic. 

One  great  mark  b}^  which  you  may  discover  a  critic  who  has  neither 
taste  nor  learning  is  this,  that  he  seldom  ventures  to  praise  any  passage 
in  an  author  which  has  not  been  before  received  and  applauded  by  the 
public,  and  that  his  criticism  turns  wholly  upon  little  faults  and  errors. 
This  part  of  a  critic  is  so  very  easy  to  succeed  in  that  we  find  every 
ordinary  reader,  upon  the  publishing  of  a  new  poem,  has  wit  and  ill- 
nature  enough  to  turn  several  passages  of  it  into  ridicule,  and  very  often 
in  the  right  place.  This  Mr.  Dryden  has  very  agreeably  remarked  in 
those  two  celebrated  lines: — 

Errors,  like  straws,  upon  the  surface  flow ; 

He  who  would  search  for  pearls  must  dive  below. 

A  true  critic  ought  to  dwell  rather  upon  excellencies  than  imperfec- 
tions, to  discover  the  concealed  beauties  of  a  writer,  and  communicate 
to  the  world  such  tilings  as  are  worth  their  observation.  The  most  ex- 
quisite words  and  finest  strokes  of  an  author  are  those  which  very  often 
appear  the  most  doubtful  and  exceptionable  to  a  man  who  wants  a 
relish  for  polite  learning;  and  they  are  these,  which  a  sour,  undis- 
tinguishing  critic  generally  attacks  with  the  greatest  violence.  Tully 
observes  that  it  is  very  easy  to  brand  or  fix  a  mark  upon  what  he  calls 
verbum  ardens,  or,  as  it  may  be  rendered  into  English,  a  gloicing  hold 
expression,  and  to  turn  it  into  ridicule  by  a  cold,  ill-natured  criticism. 
A  little  wit  is  equally  capable  of  exposing  a  beauty  and  of  aggravating 
a  fault;  and,  though  such  a  treatment  of  an  author  naturally  produces 
indignation  in  the  mind  of  an  understanding  reader,  it  has,  however,  its 
effect  among  the  generality  of  those  whose  hands  it  falls  into,  the  rabble 
of  mankind  being  very  apt  to  think  that  everything  which  is  laughed 
at  with  any  mixture  of  wit  is  ridiculous  in  itself. 

Such  a  mirth  as  this  is  always  unseasonable  in  a  critic,  as  it  rather 
prejudices  the  reader  than  convinces  him,  and  is  capable  of  making  a 
beauty,  as  well  as  a  blemish,  the  subject  of  derision.  A  man  who  can- 
not write  with  wit  on  a  proper  subject  is  dull  and  stupid,  but  one 
who  shows  it  in  an  improper  place  is-  as  impertinent  and  absurd.  Be- 
sides, a  man  who  has  the  gift  of  ridicule  is  very  apt  to  find  fault  with 


224         Literature  of  Period  VL,  1660-1745. 

anything  that  gives  him  an  opportunity  of  exerting  his  beloved  talent, 
and  very  often  censures  a  passage,  not  because  there  is  any  fault  in  it, 
but  because  he  can  be  merry  upon  it.  Such  kinds  of  pleasantry  are  very 
unfair  and  disingenuous  in  works  of  criticism,  in  which  the  greatest 
masters,  both  ancient  and  modern,  have  always  appeared  with  a  serious 
and  instructive  air. 

As  I  intend  in  my  next  paper  to  show  the  defects  in  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost,  I  thought  fit  to  premise  these  few  particulars,  to  the  end 
that  the  reader  may  know  I  enter  upon  it,  as  on  a  very  ungrateful 
work,  and  that  I  shall  just  point  at  the  imperfections,  without  endeav- 
oring to  inflame  tliem  with  ridicule.  I  must  also  observe  with 
Longinus  that  the  productions  of  a  great  genius,  with  many  lapses  and 
inadvertencies,  are  infinitely  preferable  to  the  works  of  an  inferior  kind 
of  author  which  are  scrupulously  exact  and  conformable  to  all  the  rules 
of  correct  writing. 

I  shall  conclude  my  paper  with  a  story  out  of  Boccalini  which  suf- 
ficiently shows  us  the  opinion  that  judicious  autlior  entertained  of  the 
sort  of  critics  I  have  been  here  mentioning  A  famous  critic,  says  he, 
having  gathered  together  all  the  faults  of  an  eminent  poet,  made  a  pres- 
ent of  them  to  Apollo,  who  received  them  very  graciously,  and  re- 
solved to  make  the  author  a  suitable  return  for  the  trouble  he  had  been 
at  in  collecting  them.  In  order  to  this  he  set  before  him  a  sack  of 
wheat,  as  it  had  been  just  threshed  out  of  the  sheaf.  He  then  bid  him 
pick  out  the  chaff  from  among  the  corn,  and  lay  it  aside  by  itself.  The 
critic  applied  himself  to  the  task  with  great  industry  and  pleasure,  and, 
after  having  made  the  due  separation,  was  presented  by  Apollo 
with  the  chaff  for  his  pains. 

Further  Reading.— The  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  papers,  published  in  pamphlet 
form  by  Clark  &  Maynard. 

Scheme  for  Review. 


Historical  Sketch. 187 

Change  of  Style  and  Subj .  188 

Transition  Poets 191 

.  fSatirist 192 


^i 


Lyrist , 


193 


^  I  Dramatist 194 

fi  [Extract  from 196 

^  [Theological  and  Political..  201 

0  j  Miscellaneous  and  Party. .  203 

f^  [Extract  from  Locke 206 


[Pope's  Three  Periods 208 

The  Minor  Poets 211 

Poetry  of  Natural  Descrip- 
tion   211 

Extract  from  Pope 212 

Swift 218 

Defoe 219 

-  Berkeley 219 

Addison  and  Steele 219 

Extract  from  Addison 222 


PEHIOD  VII. 

Fkom  Swift's  Death  to  the  French  EevolutioNj 
1745-1789. 


Lesson  41. 

Brief  Historical  Sketch.— Invasion  by  second  Pretender,  son  of  the 
first,  1745.  Battle  of  Culloden,  Apr.  16,  1746.  England  begins,  1755, 
the  French  and  Indian  War,  closed  by  Treaty  of  Paris  in  1763.  Clive'a 
Battle  of  Plassey  in  India,  1757.  Eng.  aids  Frederic  the  Great  in  the 
Seven  Years'  War  against  Austria,  France,  and  Russia,  begun  1756. 
Era  of  the  Elder  Pitt,  the  Great  Commoner,  afterward  Lord  Chatham, 
the  third  quarter  of  this  century.  Under  Clive  the  East  India  Co.  con- 
quers a  large  part  of  India,  1755-67.  Geo.  III.  succeeds  Geo.  II.,  1760. 
His  influence  over  his  ministry  almost  supreme.  Wilkes'  Controversy, 
1762-83.  Stamp  Act,  1764.  Repeal  of  it,  1765.  Watt  invents  Steam 
Engine,  1765,  patents  it,  1781.  Arkwright's  Spinning  Machine,  1768. 
Regulation  Acts,  1774.  First  great  English  Journals  date  from  about 
1770.  Right  of  the  press  to  criticise  Parliament,  ministers,  and  even 
the  sovereign  now  established.  Death  of  Chatham,  1778.  American 
Revolution  begins,  1775.  Lord  George  Gordon  Riots,  1780.  American 
Independence  acknowledged  by  Treaty  of  Paris,  1783.  The  Younger 
Pitt  made  Prime  Minister,  1784.  Mail  Coaches  introduced,  1784.  East 
Indian  possessions  vastly  increased  by  Warren  Hastings,  1774-85.  Arti- 
cles of  impeachment  presented  against  him  by  Burke,  1786.  Trial 
began  1788,  lasting  till  1795,  and  resulting  in  his  acquittal.  Howard's 
Reform  of  prisons  and  prison  discipline,  1774r-90.  French  Revolu- 
tion, 1789. 


326        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 


LESSOisr  42. 

Peose  Literatuee. — "  The  rapid  increase  of  manufac- 
tures, science,  and  prosperity  whicii  began  with  the  middle  of 
the  eighteenth  century  is  paralleled  by  the  growth  of  Litera- 
ture.    The  general  causes  of  this  growth  were: — 

1.  A  good  prose  style  had  been  perfected,  and  the  method  of 
writing  being  made  easy,  production  increased.  Men  were 
born,  as  it  were,  into  a  good  school  of  the  art  of  composition, 
and  the  boy  of  eighteen  had  no  difficulty  in  making  sentences 
which  the  Elizabethan  writer  could  not  haye  put  together 
after  fifty  years  of  study. 

2.  The  long  peace  after  the  accession  of  the  House  of  Han- 
over had  left  England  at  rest,  and  given  it  wealth.  The  re- 
claiming of  waste  tracts,  and  the  increased  wealth  and  trade 
made  better  communication  necessary;  and  the  country  was 
soon  covered  with  a  network  of  highways.  The  leisure  gave 
time  to  men  to  think  and  write:  the  quicker  interchange  be- 
tween the  capital  and  the  country  spread  over  England  the 
literature  of  the  capital,  and  stirred  men  everywhere  to  write. 
The  coaching  services  and  the  post  carried  the  new  book  and 
the  literary  criticism  to  the  villages,  and  awoke  the  men  of 
genius  there,  who  might  otherwise  have  been  silent. 

3.  The  Press  sent  far  and  wide  the  news  of  the  day,  and  grew 
in  importance  till  it  contained  the  opinions  and  writinsg  of 
men  like  Canning.  Such  seed  produced  literary  work  in  the 
country.  Neiuspapers  now  began  to  play  their  part  in  litera- 
ture. They  rose  under  the  Commonwealth,  but  became  im- 
portant when  the  censorship  which  reduced  them  to  a  mere 
broadsheet  of  news  was  removed  after  the  Eevolution  of  1688. 
The  political  sleep  of  the  age  of  the  first  tAvo  Georges  hin- 
dered their  progress;  but,  in  the  reign  of  George  III.,  after  a 
struggle  with  which  the  name  of  John  Wilkes  and  the  author 
of  the  letters  of  Junius  are  connected,  the  Press  claimed  and 


Prose — The  Novel — Fielding  and  Others.     227 

obtained  the  right  to  criticise  the  conduct  and  measures  of 
Ministers  and  Parliament  and  the  King;  and,  after  the  strug- 
gle in  1771,  the  right  to  publish  and  comment  on  the  debates 
in  the  two  Houses. 

The  gi-eat  English  Journals,  the  Morning  Chronicle,  the 
Post,  the  Herald,  and  the  Times,  gave  an  enormous  impulse 
within  the  next  twenty  years  to  the  production  of  books,  and 
created  a  new  class  of  literary  men — the  Journalists.  Later 
on,  in  1802,  the  publication  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and 
afterwards  of  the  Quarterly  Review  and  Blackwood^s  Maga- 
zine, started  another  kind  of  prose  writing,  and  by  their 
criticisms  on  new  books  improved  and  stimulated  litera- 
ture. 

4.  Communicatioii  with  the  Continent  had  increased  during 
the  peaceable  times  of  Walpole,  and  the  wars  that  followed 
made  it  still  easier.  With  its  increase,  tw^o  new  and  great 
outbursts  of  literature  told  upon  England.  France  sent  the 
works  of  Montesquieu,  of  Voltaire,  Rousseau,  Diderot,  D'Alem- 
bert,  and  the  rest  of  the  liberal  thinkers  who  were  called  the 
Encyclopaedists,  to  influence  and  quicken  English  literature 
on  all  the  great  subjects  that  belong  to  the  social  and  poli- 
tical life  of  man.  Afterwards,  the  fresh  German  move- 
ment, led  by  Lessing  and  others,  and  carried  on  by  Goethe 
and  Schiller,  added  its  impulse  to  the  poetical  school  that 
arose  in  England  along  with  the  French  Revolution.  These 
were  the  general  causes  of  the  rapid  growth  of  literature  from 
the  time  of  George  III." 

"  It  seems  as  if  a  simple  and  natural  prose  were  a  thing  which  we 
might  expect  to  come  easy  to  communities  of  men,  and  to  come  early  to 
them ;  but  we  know  from  experience  that  it  is  not  so.  Poetry  and  the 
poetic  form  of  expression  naturally  precede  prose.  We  see  this  in 
ancient  Greece.  We  see  prose  forming  itself  there  gradually  and  with 
labor;  we  see  it  passing  through  more  than  one  stage  before  it  attains 
to  thorough  propriety  and  lucidity,  long  after  forms  of  consummate  ade- 
quacy have  already  been  reached  and  used  in  poetry.  It  is  a  people's 
growth  in  practical  life,  and  its  native  turn  for  developing  this  life  and 


228        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

for  making  progress  in  it  which  awaken  the  desire  for  a  good  prose — a 
prose,  plain,  direct,  intelligible,  serviceable. 

The  practical  genius  of  our  people  could  not  but  urge  irresistibly  to 
the  production  of  a  real  prose  style,  because,  for  the  purposes  of  modern 
life,  the  old  English  prose,  the  prose  of  Milton  and  Taylor,  is  cumber- 
some, unavailable,  impossible.  A  dead  language,  the  Latin,  for  a  long 
time  furnished  the  nations  of  Europe  with  an  instrument  of  the  kind 
superior  to  any  which  they  had  yet  discovered  in  their  own  tongue. 
But  such  nations  as  England  and  France,  called  to  a  great  historic  life, 
and  with  powerful  interests  and  gifts,  were  sure  to  feel  the  need  of 
having  a  sound  prose  of  their  own,  and  to  bring  such  a  prose  forth. 
They  brought  it  forth  in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries; 
France  first,  afterwards  'Ei\ig\^n(\"— Matthew  Arnold. 

The  Novel. — "  The  novel  is  perhaps  the  most  remarkable 
of  the  forms  literature  now  took.  It  began  in  the  reign  of 
George  XL  No  other  books  have  ever  produced  so  plentiful 
an  offspring  as  the  novels  of  Kichardson,  Fielding,  and  Smol- 
lett. The  novel  arranges  and  combines  round  the  passion  of 
love  and  its  course  between  two  or  more  persons  a  number  of 
events  and  of  characters,  which,  in  their  action  on  one  another, 
develop  the  plot  of  the  story  and  bring  about  a  sad  or  a  happy 
close.  The  story  may  be  laid  at  any  time,  in  any  class  of 
society,  in  any  place.  The  whole  world  and  the  whole  of 
human  life  lie  before  it  as  its  subject.  Its  vast  sphere  ac- 
counts for  its  vast  production — its  human  interest  for  its  vast 
numbers  of  readers. 

Samuel  RicHAKDSOi^r,  1689-1761,  while  Pope  was  yet  alive, 
wrote  in  the  form  of  letters,  and  in  two  months'  time,  Pamela, 
1740,  and  afterwards  Clarissa  Harloive,  1748,  and  Sir  Charles 
Grandison.  The  second  is  the  best,  and  all  are  celebrated 
for  their  subtile  and  tender  drawing  of  the  human  heart. 
They  are  novels  of  Sentiment;  and  their  intense  minuteness 
of  detail  gives  them  reality.  Henry  Fielding  and  Tobias 
Smollett  followed  him  with  the  novel  of  Real  life,  full  of 
events,  adventures,  fun,  and  vivid  painting  of  various  kinds 
of  life  in  England. 


Prose — The  Novel — Fielding  and  Others.     229 

FiELDii^G,  1707-1754,  began  with  Joseph  Andreios,  1742; 
Smollett,  1721-1771,  with  Roderich  Eandom,  1748.  Both 
wrote  many  other  stories,  but  in  truthful  representation  of 
common  life,  and  in  the  natural  growth  and  winding  up  of  the 
story,  Fielding's  To?n  Jones ^  1749,  is  our  English  master-piece 
and  model.  Ten  years  thus  sufficed  to  create  an  entirely  new 
literature.  Laurekce  Stern'e,  1713-1768,  in  his  Tristram 
Shandy,  1759,  introduced  the  novel  of  Character  in  which 
events  are  few.  His  peculiar  vein  of  labyrinthine  humor  and 
falsetto  sentiment  has  been  imitated,  but  never  attained.  We 
mention  Johnson's  Rasselas,  1759,  as  the  first  of  our  Didactic 
tales,  and  the  Fool  of  Quality,  by  Hen^ry  Brooke,  as  the 
first  of  our  Theological  tales. 

Under  George  III.  new  forms  of  fiction  appeared.  Gold- 
smith's Vicar  of  Wakefield,  1766,  was  the  first,  and  perhaps 
the  most  charming,  of  all  those  novels  which  Ave  may  call 
Idyllic,  which  describe  the  loves  and  the  simple  lives  of 
country  people  in  coun.try  scenery.  Miss  Burney's  Evelina, 
1778,  and  Cecilia  were  the  first  novels  of  Society.  Mrs. 
lifCHBALD's  Simple  Story,  1791,  introduced  the  novel  of 
Passion,  and  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  in  her  wild  and  picturesque 
tales,  the  Romantic  novel." 

Bibliography.  Richardson.— D.  Masson's  Brit.  Novelists;  Mrs.  Oliphant's  Hist 
Sketches;  L.  Stephen's  Hours  in  a  Library;  Fort.  Rev.,  v,  12,  1869;  Fraser's  Mag.,  v. 
62,  1860,  and  v.  71,  1865;  West.  Rev.,  v.  91,  1869. 

Fielding.— Thackeray's  Erig.  Humorists;  Whipple's  Essays  and  Reviews; 
Forsyth's  Novels  and  Novelists;  Scott's  Lives  of  the  Novelists;  Black.  Mag.,  v.  87, 
1860;  Fraser's  Mag.,  v.  57, 1858,  and  v.  61,  1860;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v,  24,  1855;  Quar.  Rev.,  v. 
98, 1856. 

Sterne.— P.  Fitzgerald's  Li/e  of ;  Thack.'s  Eng.  Humorists;  Scott's  Lives  of  the 
Novelists;  Tuckerman's  Essays;  Black.  Mag.,  v.  97, 1865;  Nat.  Rev.,  v,  18,  1864;  N.  A. 
Rev.,  V.  81,  1865,  and  v.  107,  1868;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  94,  1854. 

From  Fielding's  Tom  Jones. 
Mr.  Jones,  being  at  last  in  a  state  of  good  spirits,  agreed  to  carry  an 
appointment,  wliicli  lie  liad  before  made,  into  execution.  This  was  to 
attend  Mrs.  Miller  and  her  youngest  daughter  into  the  gallery  at  the 
playhouse,  and  to  admit  Mr.  Partridge  as  one  of  the  company.  For,  as 
Jones  had  really  that  taste  for  humor  which  many  affect,  he  expected 


230        Literature  of  Period  VII.,  1745-1789. 

to  enjoy  much  entertainment  in  the  criticisms  of  Partridge;  from  whom 
he  expected  tlie  simple  dictates  of  nature,  unimproved,  indeed,  but  lilie- 
•wise  unadulterated,  by  art. 

In  the  first  row,  then,  of  the  first  gallery,  did  Mr.  Jones,  Mrs.  Miller, 
her  youngest  daughter,  and  Partridge  take  their  places.  Partridge 
immediately  declared  it  was  the  finest  place  he  had  ever  been  in.  When 
the  first  music  was  played,  he  said  it  was  a  wonder  how  so  many 
fiddlers  could  play  at  one  time  without  putting  one  another  out.  While 
the  fellow  was  lighting  the  upper  candles,  he  cried  out  to  Mrs.  Miller, 
"Look,  look,  madam;  the  very  picture  of  the  man  in  tlie  end  of  the 
common  prayer-book,  before  the  gunpowder  treason  service."  Nor 
could  he  help  observing  with  a  sigh,  when  all  the  candles  were  lighted, 
that  here  were  candles  enough  burned  in  one  night  to  keep  an  honest 
poor  family  for  a  whole  twelvemonth. 

As  soon  as  the  play,  which  was  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark,  began, 
Partridge  was  all  attention,  nor  did  he  break  silence  till  the  entrance  of 
the  ghost;  upon  which  he  asked  Jones  what  man  that  was  in  the  strange 
dress;  "something,"  said  he,  "like  what  I  have  seen  in  a  picture.  Sure 
it  is  not  armor,  is  it?" 

Jones  answered,  "  That  is  the  ghost.'' 

To  which  Partridge  replied  with  a  smile,  "Persuade  me  to  that,  sir, 
if  you  can.  Though  I  can't  say  I  ever  actually  saw  a  ghost  in  my  life, 
yet  I  am  certain  I  should  know  one,  if  I  saw  him,  better  than  that  comes 
to.  No,  no,- sir;  ghosts  don't  appear  in  such  dresses  as  that,  neither." 
In  this  mistake,  which  caused  much  laughter  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Partridge,  he  was  suffered  *to  continue  till  the  scene  between  the  ghost 
and  Hamlet,  when  Partridge  gave  that  credit  to  Mr.  Garrick  which  he 
had  denied  to  Jones,  and  fell  into  so  violent  a  trembling  that  his  knees 
knocked  against  each  other. 

Jones  asked  him  what  was  the  matter,  and  whether  he  was  afraid  of 
the  warrior  upon  the  stage. 

"  O  la!  sir,"  said  he,  "I  perceive  now  it  is  what  you  told  me.  I  am 
not  afraid  of  anything,  for  I  know  it  is  but  a  play;  and,  if  it  was  really 
a  ghost,  it  could  do  one  no  harm  at  such  a  distance,  and  in  so  much 
company;  and  yet,  if  I  was  frightened,  I  am  not  the  only  person." 

"  Why,  who, "cries  Jones,  "dost  thou  take  to  be  such  a  coward  here 
besides  thyself?" 

"Nay,  you  may  call  me  coward  if  you  will;  but,  if  that  little  man 
there  upon  the  stage  is  not  frightened,  I  never  saw  any  man  frightened 
in  my  life.  Ay,  ay;  go  along  with  you!  Ay,  to  be  sure!  Who's  fool, 
then?    Will  you?    Lud  have  mercy  upon  such  foolhardiness!    What- 


Prose— Fielding' s,  231 

ever  happens  it  is  good  enough  for  you.  Follow  you?  I'd  follow  the 
devil  as  soon.  Nay,  perhaps  it  is.  the  devil — for  they  say  he  can  put  on 
what  likeness  he  pleases.  Oh!  here  he  is  again.  No  farther!  No,  you 
have  gone  far  enough  already;  farther  than  I'd  have  gone  for  all  the 
king's  dominions."  "Jones  offered  to  speak,  but  Partridge  cried,  "Hush, 
hush,  dear  sir,  don't  you  hear  him?"  And,  during  the  whole  speecU  of 
the  ghost,  he  sat  with  his  eyes  tixed  partly  on  the  ghost  and  partly  on 
Hamlet,  and  with  his  mouth  open ;  the  same  passions  which  succeeded 
each  other  in  Hamlet  succeeding  likewise  in  him. 

When  the  scene  was  over,  Jones  said,  "  Why,  Partridge,  you  exceed 
my  expectations.     You  enjoy  the  play  more  than  I  conceived  possible." 

"Nay,  sir,"  answered  Partridge,  "if  you  are  not  afraid  of  the 
devil,  I  can't  help  it;  but,  to  be  sure,  it  is  natural  to  be  surprised  at  such 
things,  though  I  know  there  is  nothing  in  them:  not  that  it  was  the 
ghost  that  surprised  me,  neither;  for  I  should  have  known  that  to  have 
been  only  a  man  in  a  strange  dress;  but,  when  I  saw  the  little  man  so 
frightened  himself,  it  was  that  which  took  hold  of  me." 

"And  dost  thou  imagine  then.  Partridge,"  cries  Jones,  "that  he  was 
really  frightened?" 

"Nay,  sir,"  said  Partridge,  "did  not  you  yourself  observe  after- 
wards, when  he  found  it  was  his  own  father's  spirit,  and  how  he  was 
murdered  in  the  garden,  how  his  fear  forsook  him  by  degrees,  and  he 
was  struck  dumb  with  sorrow,  as  it  were,  just  as  I  should  have  been, 
had  it  been  my  own  case.  But  hush!  O  la!  what  noise  is  that?  There 
he  is  again.  Well,  to  be  certain,  though  I  know  there  is  nothing  at  all 
in  it,  I  am  glad  I  am  not  down  yonder  where  those  men  are."  Then, 
turning  his  eyes  again  upon  Hamlet,  "  Ay,  you  may  draw  your  sword; 
what  signifies  a  sword  against  the  power  of  the  devil?" 

During  the  second  act.  Partridge  made  very  few  remarks.  He 
greatly  admired-  the  fineness  of  the  dresses;  nor  could  he  iielp  observing 
upon  the  king's  countenance.  "Well,"  said  he,  " how  people  may  be 
deceived  by  faces!  Who  would  think,  by  looking  in  the  king's  face, 
that  be  had  ever  committed  a  murder?"  He  then  inquired  after  the 
ghost;  but  Jones,  who  intended  he  should  be  surprised,  gave  him  no 
other  satisfaction  than  that  he  might  possibly  see  him  again  soon,  and 
in  a  flash  of  fire. 

Partridge  sat  in  fearful  expectation  of  this;  and  now,  when  the  ghost 
made  his  next  appearance,  Partridge  cried  out,  "  There,  sir,  now;  what 
say  you  now?  is  he  frightened  now  or  no?  As  much  frightened  as  you 
think  me;  and,  to  be  sure,  nobody  can  help  some  fears.  I  would  not 
be  in  so  bad  a  condition  as— what's  bis  name?— Squire  Hamlet  is  there, 


232        Literature  of  Period  YIL,  1745-1789. 


for  all  the  world.  Bless  me!  what's  become  of  the  spirit?  As  I  am  a 
living  soul,  I  thought  I  saw  him  sink  into  the  earth." 

"Indeed  you  saw  right,"  answered  Jones. 

"Well,"  cries  Partridge,  "I  know  it  is  only  a  play;  and  besides,  if 
there  was  anything  in  all  this,  Madam  Miller  would  not  laugh  so;  for, 
as  to  you,  sir,  you  would  not  be  afraid,  I  believe,  if  the  devil  was  here 
in  person.  There,  there;  ay,  no  wonder  you  are  in  such  a  passion; 
shake  the  vile,  wicked  wretch  to  pieces.  If  she  was  my  own  mother,  I 
should  serve  her  so.  To  be  sure,  all  duty  to  a  mother  is  forfeited  by 
such  wicked  doings.  Ay,  go  about  your  business;  I  hate  the  sight  of 
you." 

Our  critic  was  now  pretty  silent  till  the  play  which  Hamlet  intro- 
duces before  the  king.  This  he  did  not  at  first  understand,  till  Jones 
explained  it  to  him;  but  he  no  sooner  entered  into  the  spirit  of  it  than 
he  began  to  bless  himself  that  he  had  never  committed  murder.  Then 
turning  to  Mrs.  Miller,  he  asked  her  if  she  did  not  imagine  the  king 
looked  as  if  he  was  touched;  "though  he  is,"  said  he,  '"a  good  actor, 
and  doth  all  he  can  to  hide  it.  Well,  I  would  not  have  so  much  to 
answer  for  as  that  wicked  man  there  hath,  to  sit  upon  a  much  higher 
chair  than  he  sits  upon.  No  wonder  he  ran  away;  for  your  sake  I'll 
never  trust  an  innocent  face  again." 

The  grave-digging  scene  next  engaged  the  attention  of  Partridge,  who 
expressed  much  surprise  at  the  number  of  skulls  thrown  upon  the  stage. 
To  which  Jones  answered  that  it  was  one  of  the  most  famous  burial- 
places  about  town. 

"No  wonder,  then,"  cries  Partridge,  "that  the  place  is  haunted. 
But  I  never  saw  in  my  life  a  worse  grave-digger.  I  had  a  sexton,  when 
I  was  clerk,  that  should  have  dug  three  graves  while  he  is  digging  one. 
The  fellow  handles  a  spade  as  if  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  had 
one  in  his  hand.  Ay,  ay,  you  may  sing.  You  had  rather  sing  than 
work,  I  believe."  Upon  Hamlet's  taking  up  the  skull,  he  cried  out, 
"Well!  it  is  strange  to  see  how  fearless  some  men  are;  I  never  could 
bring  myself  to  touch  anything  belonging  to  a  dead  man,  on  any  ac- 
count.    He  seemed  frightened  enough,  too,  at  the  ghost,  I  thought." 

Little  more  worth  remembering  occurred  during  the  play;  at  the  end 
of  which  Jones  asked  him  which  of  the  players  he  had  liked  best.  To 
this  he  answered,  with  some  appearance  of  indignation  at  the  question, 
"  The  king,  without  doubt." 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Partridge,"  says  Mrs.  Miller,  "you  are  not  of  the 
same  opinion  with  the  town;  for  they  are  all  agreed  that  Hamlet  is 
acted  by  the  best  player  who  ever  was  on  the  stage," 


Prose — History,  Biography,  and  Travels.    233 

"He  the  best  player!"  cries  Partridge,  with  a  contemptuous  sneer, 
"why,  I  could  act  as  well  as  he  myself.  I  am  sure,  if  I  had  seen  a 
ghost,  I  should  have  looked  in  the  very  same  manner,  and  done  just  as 
he  did.  And  then,  to  be  sure,  in  that  scene,  as  you  called  it,  between  him 
and  his  mother,  where  you  told  me  he  acted  so  fine,  why.  Lord  help  me, 
any  man,  that  is,  any  good  man,  that  had  such  a  mother,  would  have 
done  exactly  the  same.  I  know  you  are  only  joking  with  me;  but, 
indeed,  madam,  though  I  was  never  at  a  play  in  London,  yet  I  have 
seen  acting  before  in  the  country;  and  the  king  for  my  money;  he 
speaks  all  his  words  distinctly,  half  as  loud  again  as  the  other.  Any- 
body may  see  he  is  an  actor." 

Thus  ended  the  adventure  at  the  playhouse,  where  Partridge  had 
afforded  great  mirth  net  only  to  Jones  and  Mrs.  Miller  but  to  all  who 
sat  within  hearing,  whc  were  more  attentive  to  what  he  said  than  to 
anything  that  passed  on  the  stage.  He  durst  not  go  to  bed  all  that 
night  for  fear  of  the  ghost;  and,  for  many  nights  after,  sweated  two  or 
three  hours,  before  he  went  to  sleep,  with  the  same  apprehensions,  and 
waked  several  times  in  great  horrors,  crying  out,  "  Lord  have  mercy 
upon  us!  there  it  is." 

Lesso'N"  48. 

History. — '*  History,  to  which  we  now  turn,  was  raised  into 
the  rank  of  literature  in  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury by  three  men. 

David  Hume's  History  of  England,  finished  1761,  is,  in 
the  importance  it  gives  to  letters,  in  its  clear  narrative  and 
style,  and  in  the  writer's  endeavor  to  make  it  a  philosophic 
whole,  our  first  literary  history.  Of  Dr.  Eobertsoj^'s  His- 
tories of  Scotland,  of  diaries  F.,  and  of  America,  the  two 
last  are  literary  by  their  descriptive  and  popular  style,  and 
show  how  our  historical  interests  were  reaching  beyond  our 
own  land. 

Edward  Gibbon",  1737-1794,  excelled  the  others  in  his 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  completed  in  1788. 
The  execution  of  his  work  was  as  accurate  and  exhaustive  as 
a  scientific  treatise.  Gibbon's  conception  of  the  whole  sub- 
ject was  as  poetical  as  a  great  picture.     Rome,  eastern  and 


284        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 


western,  was  painted  in  the  centre,  dying  slowly  like  a  lion. 
Around  it  he  pictured  all  the  nations  and  hordes  that  wrought 
its  ruin,  told  their  stories  from  the  beginning,  and  the  results 
on  themselves  and  on  the  world  of  their  victories  over  Rome. 
The  collecting  and  use  of  every  detail  of  the  art  and  costume 
and  manners  of  the  times  he  described,  the  reading  and  use 
of  all  the  contemj)orary  literature,  the  careful  geographical 
detail,  the  marshalling  of  all  this  information  with  his  facts, 
the  great  imaginative  conception  of  the  work  as  a  whole,  and 
the  use  of  a  full,  and  perhaps  too  heightened,  style  to  add 
importance  to  the  subject  gave  a  new  impulse  and  a  new 
model  to  histoi-ical  literature.  The  contemptuous  tone  of  the 
book  is  made  still  more  remarkable  by  the  heavily-laden  style, 
and  the  monotonous  balance  of  every  sentence.  The  bias 
Gibbon  had  against  Christianity  illustrates  a  common  fault 
of  historians.  The  historical  value  of  Hume's  history  was 
spoiled  by  his  personal  dislike  of  the  principles  of  our  Revo- 
lution." 

"  The  faults  of  Gibbon's  style  are  obvious  enough,  and  its  compensa- 
tory merits  are  not  far  to  seek.  No  one  can  overloolc  its  frequent  tumid- 
ity and.  constant  want  of  terseness,  Tt  lacks  suppleness,  ease,  variety. 
It  is  not  often  distinguished  by  happy  selection  of  epithet,  and  seems  to 
ignore  all  delicacy  of  nuance.  A  prevailing  grandiloquence,  which  eas- 
ily slides  into  pomposity,  is  its  greatest  blemish.  It  seems  as  if  Gibbon 
had  taken  the  stilted  tone  of  the  old  French  tragedy  for  his  model,  rather 
than  the  crisp  and  nervous  prose  of  the  best  French  w^riters.  We  are 
constantly  offended  by  a  superfine  diction  lavished  on  barbarous  chiefs 
and  rough  soldiers  of  the  Lower  Empire,  which  almost  reproduces  the 
high-flown  rhetoric  in  which  Corneille's  and  Racine's  characters  address 
each  other.  Such  phrases  as  the  'majesty  of  the  throne,'  '  the  dignity 
of  the  purple,'  the  'wisdom  of  the  senate  '  recur  with  a  rather  jarring 
monotony,  especially  when  the  rest  of  the  narrative  was  designed  to 
show  that  there  was  no  majesty  nor  dignity  nor  wisdom  involved  in  the 
matter.  We  feel  that  the  writer  was  thinking  more  of  his  sonorous  sen» 
tence  than  of  the  real  fact. 

On  the  other  hand,  nothing  but  a  want  of  candor  or  taste  can  lead 
any  one  to  overlook  the  rare  and  great  excellences  of  Gibbon's  style, 


Prose — History^  Biography^  and  Travels.     235 

First  of  all,  it  is  singularly  correct — a  rather  common  merit  now,  but 
not  common  in  his  day.  But  its  sustained  vigor  and  loftiness  will  al- 
ways be  uncommon;  above  all,  its  rapidity  and  masculine  length  of 
stride  are  quite  admirable.  When  he  takes  up  his  pen  to  describe  a 
campaign  or  any  great  historic  scene,  we  feel  that  we  shall  have  some- 
thing worthy  of  the  occasion,  that  we  shall  be  carried  swiftly  and  grandly 
through  it  all,  without  the  suspicion  of  a  breakdown  of  ahy  kind's  being 
possible.  An  indefinable  stamp  of  weightiness  is  impressed  on  Gibbon's 
writing;  he  has  a  baritone  manliness  which  banishes  everything ,small, 
trivial,  or  weak.  On  the  whole,  we  may  say  that  his  manner,  with  cer- 
tain maniff^st  faults,  is  not  unworthy  of  his  matter,  and  the  praise  is 
great." — J.  C.  Morrison. 

Biography  and  Travels.— ''These  are  linked  at  many 
points  to  History.  The  first  was  lifted  into  a  higher  place  in 
literature  hy  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets,  1779-81,  and  by 
Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson,  1791.  The  production  of  books  of 
Travel,  since  James  Bruce  left  for  Africa  in  1762  till  the  pres- 
ent day,  has  increased  as  rapidly  almost  as  that  of  the  Novel, 
and  there  is  scarcely  any  part  of  the  world  that  has  not  been 
visited  and  described.  In  this  way  avast  amount  of  materials 
has  been  collected  for  the  use  of  philosophers,  poets,  and  his- 
torians. Travel  has  rarely  produced  literature,  but  it  has  been 
one  of  its  assistants. 

Classic  Comedy  may  be  said  to  be  represented  by  Tlie 
Goodnatured  Man  and  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  of  Goldsmith, 
and  by  The  Rivals  and  the  School  for  Scandal  of  Sheridan", 
all  of  which  appeared  between  1768  and  1778.  Both  men  were 
Irishmen,  but  Goldsmith  has  more  of  the  Celtic  grace,  and 
Sheridan  of  the  Celtic  wit.  With  Sheridan  we  may  say  that 
the  history  of  the  English  drama  closes." 

Bibliography.  Hume,  Robertson,  and  Gibbon.— ^ngf.  Men  of  Let.  Series ;  H. 
Brougham's  Lives  of  Men  of  Let. ;  J.  Forster's  Crit.  Essays  ;  Hume's  Mij  Own  Life  ; 
Contem.  Rev.,  v.  11,  1869  ;  E.  Lawrence's  Lives  of  Brit.  Hist.;  Bagehot's  Estimates 
of  some  Englishmen  and  Scotchmen;  Sainte  Beuve's  Eng.  Portraits ;  Eel.  Mag., 
Nov.,  1852. 


23G        Literature  of  Period  YIL,  1745-1789. 

From  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall. 

The  noblest  of  the  Greeks  and  the  bravest  of  the  allies  were  sum- 
moned to  the  palace  to  prepare  them,  on  the  evening  of  the  28th,  for  the 
duties  and  dangers  of  the  general  assault.  The  last  speech  of  Palae- 
ologus  was  the  funeral  oration  of  the  Roman  Empire;  he  promised,  he 
conjured,  and  he  vainly  attempted  to  infuse  the  hope  which  was  extin- 
guished in  his  own  mind.  In  this  world  all  was  comfortless  and  gloomy; 
and  neitlier  the  gospel  nor  the  church  has  proposed  any  conspicuous 
recompense  to  the  heroes  who  fall  in  the  service  of  their  country. 

But  the  example  of  their  prince  and  the  confinement  of  a  siege  had 
armed  these  warriors  with  the  courage  of  despair;  and  the  pathetic  scene 
is  described  by  the  feelings  of  the  historian  Phranza,  who  was  himself 
present  at  this  mournful  assembly.  They  wept,  they  embraced;  regard- 
less of  their  families  and  fortunes,  they  devoted  their  lives;  and  each 
commander,  departing  to  his  station,  maintained  all  night  a  vigilant  and 
anxious  watch  on  the  rampart.  The  emperor  and  some  faithful  com- 
panions, entered  the  dome  of  St.  Sophia,  which  in  a  few  hours  was  to 
be  converted  into  a  mosque,  and  devoutly  received,  with  tears  and 
prayers,  the  sacrament  of  the  holy  communion.  He  reposed  some  mo- 
ments in  the  palace,  which  resounded  with  cries  and  lamentations; 
solicited  the  pardon  of  all  whom  he  might  have  injured;  and  mounted 
on  horseback  to  visit  the  guards  and  explore  the  motions  of  the  enemy. 
The  distress  and  fall  of  the  last  Constantino  are  more  glorious  than  the 
long  prosperity  of  the  Byzantine  Caesars. 

In  the  confusion  of  darkness,  an  assailant  may  sometimes  succeed; 
but  in  this  great  and  general  attack,  the  military  judgment  and  astro- 
logical knowledge  of  Mahomet  advised  him  to  expect  the  morning,  the 
memorable  29th  of  May,  in  the  fourteen  hundred  and  fifty-third  year  of 
the  Christian  era.  The  preceding  night  had  been  strenuously  employed : 
the  troops,  the  cannon,  and  the  fascines  were  advanced  to  the  edge  of 
the  ditch,  which  in  many  parts  presented  a  smooth  and  level  passage  to 
the  breach;  and  his  fourscore  galleys  almost  touched  with  the  prows  and 
their  scaling-ladders  the  less  defensible  walls  of  the  harbor.  Under  pain 
of  death,  silence  was  enjoined;  but  the  physical  laws  of  motion  and 
sound  are  not  obedient  to  discipline  or  fear;  each  individual  might  sup- 
press his  voice  and  measure  his  footsteps;  but  the  march  and  labor  of 
thousands  must  inevitably  produce  a  strange  confusion  of  dissonant 
clamors,  which  reached  the  ears  of  the  watchmen  of  the  towers. 

At  daybreak,  without  the  customary  signal  of  the  morning-gun,  the 
Turks  assaulted  the  city  by  sea  and  land;  and  the  similitude  of  a  twined 
or  twisted  thread  has  been  applied  to  the  closeness  and  continuity  of 


Prose — Gibbon^  s,  237 


their  line  of  attack.  The  foremost  ranks  consisted  of  the  refuse  of  the 
host,  a  voluntary  crowd,  wiio  fought  without  order  or  command;  of  the 
feebleness  of  age  or  cliildhood,  of  peasants  and  vagrants,  and  of  all  who 
had  joined  the  camp  in  the  blind  hope  of  plunder  and  martyrdom.  The 
common  impulse  drove  them  onwards  to  the  wall;  the  most  audacious 
to  climb  were  instantly  precipitated;  and  not  a  dart,  not  a  bullet  of  the 
Christians  was  idly  wasted  on  the  accumulated  throng.  But  their  strength 
and  ammunition  were  exhausted  in  this  laborious  defence;  the  ditch  was 
filled  with  the  bodies  of  the  slain;  they  supported  the  footsteps  of  their 
companions;  and  of  this  devoted  vanguard  the  death  was  more  service- 
able than  the  life. 

Under  their  respective  bashaws  and  sanjaks,  the  troops  of  Anatolia 
and  Romania  were  successively  led  to  the  charge;  their  progress  w^as 
various  and  doubtful ;  but,  after  a  conflict  of  two  hours,  the  Greeks  still 
maintained  and  improved  their  advantage;  and  the  voice  of  the  emperor 
was  heard,  encouraging  his  soldiers  to  achieve,  by  a  last  effort,  the  de- 
liverance of  their  country.  In  that  fatal  moment,  the  janizaries  arose, 
fresh,  vigorous,  and  invincible.  The  sultan  himself  on  horseback,  with 
an  iron  mace  in  his  hand,  was  the  spectator  and  judge  of  their  valor;  he 
was  surrounded  by  ten  thousand  of  his  domestic  troops  \^hom  he  re- 
served for  Ihe  decisive  occasions;  and  the  tide  of  battle  was  directed  and 
impelled  by  his  voice  and  eye.  His  numerous  ministers  of  justice  were 
posted  behind  the  line  to  urge,  to  restrain,  and  to  punish;  and,  if  danger 
was  in  the  front,  shame  and  inevitable  death  were  in  the  rear  of  the 
fugitives.  The  cries  of  fear  and  of  pain  were  drowned  in  the  martial 
music  of  drums,  trumpets,  and  attaballs;  and  experience  has  proved 
that  the  mechanical  operation  of  sounds,  by  quickening  the  circulation  of 
the  blood  and  spirits,  will  act  on  the  human  machine  more  forcibly  than 
the  eloquence  of  reason  and  honor.  From  the  lines,  the  galleys,  and  the 
bridge,  the  Ottoman  artillery  thundered  on  all  sides;  and  the  camp  and 
city,  the  Greeks  and  the  Turks,  were  involved  in  a  cloud  of  smoke,  which 
could  only  be  dispelled  by  the  final  deliverance  or  destruction  of  the 
Roman  Empire. 

The  single  combats  of  the  heroes  of  history  or  fable  amuse  our  fancy 
and  engage  our  affections;  the  skilful  evolutions  of  war  may  inform  the 
mind,  and  improve  a  necessary,  though  pernicious,  science;  but,  in  the 
uniform  and  odious  pictures  of  a  general  assault,  all  is  blood  and  horror 
and  confusion :  nor  shall  I  strive,  at  the  distance  of  three  centuries  and 
a  thousand  miles,  to  delineate  a  scene  of  which  there  could  be  no  spec- 
tators, and  of  which  the  actors  themselves  were  incapable  of  forming  any 
i-ist  or  adequate  idea. 


238        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

The  immediate  loss  of  Constantinople  may  be  ascribed  to  the  bullet, 
or  arrow,  which  pierced  the  gauntlet  of  John  Justiniani.  The  sight  of 
his  blood,  and  the  exquisite  pain  appalled  the  courage  of  the  chief,  whose 
arms  and  counsels  were  the  firmest  rampart  of  the  city.  As  he  withdrew 
from  his  station  in  quest  of  a  surgeon,  his  flight  was  perceived  and 
stopped  by  the  indefatigable  emperor.  * '  Your  wound, "  exclaimed  Palai- 
ologus,  "is  slight;  the  danger  is  pressing;  your  presence  is  necessary;  and 
whither  will  you  retire?"  "I  will  retire,"  said  the  trembling  Genoese, 
"by  the  same  road  which  God  has  opened  to  the  Turks;"  and  at  these 
words  he  hastily  passed  through  one  of  the  breaches  of  the  inner  wall. 
By  this  pusillanimous  act  he  stained  the  honors  of  a  military  life;  and 
the  few  days  which  he  survived  in  Galata,  or  the  isle  of  Chios,  were  em- 
bittered by  his  own  and  the  public  reproach.  His  example  was  imitated 
by  the  greatest  part  of  the  Latin  auxiliaries,  and  the  defence  began  to 
slacken  when  the  attack  was  pressed  with  redoubled  vigor.  ' 

The  number  of  the  Ottomans  was  fifty,  perhaps  a  hundred,  times 
superior  to  that  of  the  Christians;  the  double  walls  were  reduced  by  the 
cannon  to  aheap  of  ruins;  in  a  circuit  of  several  miles,  some  places 
must  be  found  more  easy  of  access  or  more  feebly  guarded ;  and,  if  the 
besiegers  could  penetrate  in  a  single  point,  the  whole  city  was  irrecover- 
ably lost.  The  first  who  deserved  the  sultan's  reward  was  Hassan,  the 
janizary,  of  gigantic  stature  and  strength.  With  his  scimitur  in  one 
hand,  and  his  buckler  in  the  other,  he  ascended  the  outward  fortifica- 
tion; of  the  thirty  janizaries  who  were  emulous  of  his  valor  eighteen 
perished  in  the  bold  adventure.  Hassan  and  his  twelve  companions  had 
reached  the  summit;  the  giant  was  precipitated  from  the  rampart;  he 
rose  on  one  knee,  and  was  again  oppressed  by  a  shower  of  darts  and 
stones.  But  his  success  had  proved  that  the  achievement  was  possible; 
the  walls  and  towers  were  instantly  covered  with  a  swarm  of  Turks;  and 
the  Greeks,  now  driven  from  the  vantage-ground,  were  overwhelmed  by 
increasing  multitudes.  Amidst  these  multitudes,  the  emperor,  who  ac- 
complished all  the  duties  of  a  general  and  a  soldier,  was  long  seen,  and 
finally  lost.  The  nobles,  who  fought  round  his  person,  sustained,  till 
their  last  breath,  the  honorable  names  of  Palaeologus  and  Cantacuzene; 
his  mournful  exclamation  was  heard,  "  Cannot  there  be  found  a  Christian 
to  cut  off  my  head?"  and  his  last  fear  was  that  of  falling  alive  into  the 
hands  of  the  infidels.  The  prudent  despair  of  Constantine  cast  away  the 
purple ;  amidst  the  tumult  he  fell  by  an  unknown  hand,  and  his  body 
was  buried  under  a  mountain  of  the  slain. 

After  his  death,  resistance  and  order  were  no  more;  the  Greeks  fled 
towards  the  city,  and  many  were  pressed  and  stifled  in  the  narrow  pass 


Prose — Political  and  Miscellaneous.         239 

of  the  gate  of  St.  Romanus.  The  victorious  Turks  rushed  through  the 
breaches  of  the  inner  wall,  and,  as  they  advanced  into  the  streets,  tliey 
were  soon  joined  by  their  brethren,  who  had  forced  the  gate  Phenar  on 
the  side  of  the  harbor.  In  the  first  heat:  of  their  pursuit,  about  two 
tliousand  Christians  were  put  to  the  sword;  but  avarice  soon  prevailed 
over  cruelty,  and  the  victors  acknowledged  that  they  should  imme- 
diately have  given  quarter,  if  the  valor  of  the  emperor  and  his  chosen 
bands  had  not  prepared  them  for  a  similar  opposition  in  every  part  of 
the  capital.  It  was  thus,  after  a  siege  of  fifty-three  days,  that  Constan- 
tinople was  irretrievably  subdued  by  the  arms  of  Mahomet  II.  Her  em- 
pire only  had  been  subverted  by  tlie  Latins;  her  religion  was  trampled 
in  the  dust  by  the  Moslem  conquerors. 

Lessotst  44. 

Philosophical  and  Political  Literature. — '*  These  were 
both  stimulated  by  the  great  movement  of  thought  on  all  sub- 
jects pertaining  to  the  natural  rights  of  man  which  was  led 
by  Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  In  philosophy  the  historian  David 
Hume  led  the  way,  and  the  transparent  clearness  of  his  style 
gave  full  force  to  opinions  which  made  utility  the  only  meas- 
ure of  virtue,  and  the  knowledge  of  our  ignorance  the  only 
certain  knowledge. 

In  Political  Literature,  Edmun^d  Burke,  born  1731,  is  our 
greatest,  almost  our  only,  writer  of  this  time.  From  1756 
to  1797,  when  he  died,  his  treatises  and  speeches  proved 
their  right  to  the  title  of  literature  by  their  extraordinary 
influence  on  the  country.  Philosophical  reasoning  and  poetic 
passion  were  wedded  together  in  them  on  the  side  of  conserv- 
atism, and  every  art  of  eloquence  was  used  with  the  mastery 
that  imagination  gives.  His  Thoughts  on  the  Cause  of  the 
Present  Discontents,  1773,  was  perhaps  the  best  of  his  works  in 
point  of  style. 

All  Burke's  work  is  more  literature  than  oratory.  Many  of 
his  speeches  enthralled  their  hearers,  but  many  more  put  them 
to  sleep.  The  very  men,  however,  who  slept  under  him  in 
the  House  read  over  and  over  again  the  same  speech,  wheD 


240        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

published,  with  renewed  delight.  Goldsmith's  praise  of  him, 
that  he  ^  wound  himself  into  his  subject  like  a  serpent,'  gives 
the  reason  why  he  sometimes  failed  as  an  orator,  why  he 
always  succeeded  as  a  writer." 

"The  varieties  of  Burke's  literary  or  rhetorical  method  are  very  strik- 
ing. It  is  almost  incredible  that  the  superb  imaginative  amplificatioQ 
of  the  description  of  Hyder  Ali's  descent  upon  the  Carnatic  should  be 
from  the  same  pen  as  the  grave,  simple,  unadorned  Address  to  the  King, 
1777,  where  each  sentence  falls  on  the  ear  with  tlie  accent  of  some  gold- 
en-tongued  oracle  of  the  wise  gods.  His  stride  is  the  stride  of  a  giant, 
from  the  sentimental  beauty  of  the  picture  of  Marie  Antoinette  at 
Versailles  to  the  learning,  positiveness,  and  cool,  judicial  mastery  of  the 
Report  on  the  Lords'  Journals,  1794.  Even  in  the  coolest  and  dryest  of 
his  pieces,  there  is  the  mark  of  greatness,  of  grasp,  of  comprehension. 
In  all  its  varieties  Burke's  style  is  noble,  earnest,  deep-flowing,  because 
iiis  sentiment  was  lofty  and  fervid,  and  went  with  sincerity  and  ardent 
disciplined  travail  of  judgment.  Burke  had  the  style  of  his  subjects, 
the  amplitude,  the  weightiness,  the  laboriousness,  the  sense,  the  high 
flight,  the  grandeur,  proper  to  a  man  dealing  with  imperial  themes — 
the  freedom  of  nations,  the  justice  of  rulers,  the  fortunes  of  great  socie- 
ties, the  sacred ness  of  law. 

Burke  will  always  be  read  with  delight  and  edification,  because,  in  the 
midst  of  discussions  on  tlie  local  and  the  accidental,  he  scatters 
apothegms  that  take  us  into  the  regions  of  lasting  wisdom.  In  the  midst 
of  the  torrent  of  his  most  strenuous  and  passionate  deliverances,  he  sud- 
denly rises  aloof  from  his  immediate  subject,  and  in  all  tranquility  re- 
minds us  of  some  permanent  relation  of  things,  some  enduring  truth  of 
human  life  or  society.  We  do  not  hear  the  organ  tones  of  Milton,  for 
faith  and  freedom  had  other  notes  in  the  seventeenth  century.  There  is 
none  of  the  complacent  and  wise-browed  sagacity  of  Bacon,  for  Burke's 
were  days  of  eager,  personal  strife  and  party  fire  and  civil  division. 
We  are  not  exhilarated  by  the  cheerfulness,  the  polish,  the  fine  man- 
ners  of  Bolingbroke,  for  Burke  had  an  anxious  conscience,  and  was 
earnest  and  intent  that  the  good  should  triumph.  And  yet  Burke  is 
among  tlie  greatest  of  those  who  have  wrought  marvels  in  the  prose  of 
our  English  tongue." — John  Morley. 

Political  Economy. — '^Before  Burke,  anew  class  of  politi- 
cal writings  had  arisen  which  concerned  themselves  with 
social  and  economical  reform.     The  immense  increase  of  the 


Prose — Political  and  Miscellaneous,         241 

industry,  wealth,  and  commerce  of  the  country,  from  1720  to 
1770,  aroused  inquiry  into  the  laws  that  regulate  wealth,  and 
Adam  Smith,  1723-1790,  a  professor  at  Glasgow,  who  had  in 
1759  written  his  book  on  the  Moral  Sentiments,  published  in 
1776  the  Wealth  of  Nations,  By  its  tlieory,  that  labor  is  the 
source  of  wealth,  and  that  to  give  the  laborer  absolute  freedom 
to  pursue  his  own  interest*  in  his  own  way  is  the  best  means 
of  increasing  the  wealth  of  the  country;  by  its  proof  that  all 
laws  made  to  restrain  or  to  shape  or  to  promote  commerce 
were  stumbling-blocks  in  the  way  of  the  wealth  of  any  state, 
he  created  the  Science  of  Political  Economy,  and  started  the 
theory  and  practice  of  Free  Trade.  All  the  questions  of  labor 
and  capital  were  now  placed  on  a  scientific  basis,  and  since 
that  time  the  literature  of  the  whole  of  the  subject  has  engaged 
great  thinkers.  Connected  with  this  were  all  the  writings  on 
the  subjects  of  the  poor  and  education  and  reform. 

Miscellaneous  Literature.— During  the  whole  of  the 
time  from  the  days  of  Addison  onwards,  the  finer  literature 
of  prose  had  flourished.  With  Samuel  Johjs^sox,  born  1709, 
began  the  literary  man  such  as  we  know  him  in  modern  times, 
who,  independent  of  patronage  or  party,  lives  by  his  pen,  and 
finds  in  the  public  his  only  paymaster.  The  Essay  was  con- 
tinued by  him  in  his  Rambler,  1750-2,  and  Idler,  but,  in  these 
papers,  lightness,  the  essence  of  Addison's  and  Steele's  Essays 
in  the  Spectator  and  Tatler,  is  not  found. 

His  celebrated  letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield  gave  the  death- 
blow to  patronage.  The  great  Dictionary  of  the  English 
Language,  1755,  at  which  he  worked  unhelped,  and  which  he 
published  without  support,  was  the  first  book  that  appealed 
solely  to  the  public.  He  represents  thus  a  new  class.  But 
he  was  also  the  last  representative  of  the  literary  king  who, 
like  Dryden  and  Pope,  lield  a  kind  of  court  in  London. 
When  he  died,  1784,  London  was  no  longer  the  only  literary 
centre,  and  poetry  and  prose  were  produced  from  aU  parts  of 
the  country." 


242        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

"Johnson's  sentences  seem  to  be  contorted,  as  his  gigantic  limbs  used 
to  twitch,  by  a  kind  of  mechanical,  spasmodic  action.  The  most  obvi- 
ous peculiarity  is  the  tendency,  which  he  noticed  himself,  to  use  too  big 
words  and  too  many  of  them.  It  was  not,  however,  the  mere  bigness 
of  the  words  that  distinguished  his  style,  but  a  peculiar  love  of  putting 
the  abstract  for  the  concrete,  of  using  awkward  inversions,  and  of  bal- 
ancing his  sentences  in  a  monotonous  rhythm,  which  give  the  appearance, 
as  they  sometimes  correspond  to  the  reality,  of  elaborate,  logical  dis- 
crimination. 

With  all  its  faults  the  style  has  the  merits  of  masculine  directness. 
The  inversions  are  not  such  as  to  complicate  the  construction.  As  Bos- 
well  remarks,  he  never  uses  a  parenthesis;  and  his  style,  though  pon- 
derous and  wearisome,  is  as  transparent  as  the  smarter  snip-snap  of 
Macaulay.  This  singular  mannerism  appears  in  his  earliest  writings;  it 
is  most  marked  at  the  time  of  the  Rambler;  whilst,  in  the  Lilies  of  the 
Poets,  although  I  think  that  the  trick  of  inversion  has  become  com- 
moner, the  other  peculiarities  have  been  so  far  softened  as  to  be  inof- 
fensive."— Leslie  Stephen. 

"Goldsmith's  Citizen  of  the  World,  a  series  of  letters  sup- 
posed to  be  written  by  a  Chinese  traveller  in  England,  and 
collected  in  1762,  satirizes  the  manners  and  fashionable  fol- 
lies of  the  time.  Several  other  series  followed,  but  they  are 
now  unreadable.  One  man  alone  in  our  own  century  caught 
the  old  inspiration,  and  with  a  humor  less  easy,  but  more 
subtile,  than  Addison's.  It  was  Charles  Lamb,  in  the  Essays 
of  Elia,  and  the  fineness  of  perception  he  showed  in  these  was 
equally  displayed  in  his  criticisms  on  the  old  dramatists. 

The  miscellaneous  literature  of  the  latter  half  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  includes,  also,  the  admirable  Letters  of  Gray, 
the  poet;  Thomas  Warton's  History  of  English  Poetry, 
which  founded  a  new  school  of  poetic  criticism;  the  many 
collections  of  periodical  essays,  all  of  which  ceased  in  1787; 
Burke's  Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the  SuUime 
and  Beautiful;  and  the  Letters  of  Junius,  political  invectives, 
written  in  a  style  which  has  preserved  them  to  this  day." 

Bibliography.  Burke.— T.  Macknight's  Life  and  Times  of;  Eng.  Men  of  Let 
Series;  J.  Timbs' Anecdote -Biogr.;  Broiigham's  Sketches  of  Statesmen;  F.  D.  Mau- 


Poetry — Gray^  Goldsmith^  and  Others.       243 

rice's  Friendship  of  Books  ;  S.  Rogers' Recollections  ;  Minto's  Man.  of  Eng.  Pr.  Lit; 
G.  Croly's  Hist.  Sketches  ;'EgI.  Mag.,  Jan.  and  Feb.,  1852,  and  Feb.  and  March,  1862; 
N.  A.  Rev.,  V.  88,  1859. 

Johnson.— Boswell's  Life  of  ;  Hawthorne's  Our  Old  Home;  Macaulay's  Essays; 
Eng.  Men  of  Let.  Series:  A.  Murphy's  Essay  on  Life  and  Genius  of;  N.  Drake's 
Essays;  T.  Carlyle's  He^-oes  and  Hero  Worship;  Ed.  Rev.,  Oct.,  1859;  Quar.  Rev.,  v, 
103, 1858,  and  V.  105,  1859;  Allibone's  Crit.  Dictionary. 

Junius.— C.  Chabot's  The  Hand-Writing  of  Junius  professionally  investigated; 
J.  J aques'  Hist,  of  Junius  and  His  Works;  De  Quincey's  Lit.  Reminiscences;  J. 
Forster's  Crit.  Essays;  West.  Rev.,  Oct.,  1871;  Quar.  Rev.,  Apr.,  1871;  Temple  Bar, 
Oct.,  1873. 

Lessoist  45. 

Poetry.— The  Elements  and  Forms  of  the  New  Poetry. 

— "  The  period  we  are  now  studying  may  not  improperly  be 
called  a  time  of  transition  in  poetry.  The  influence  of  the 
poetry  of  the  past  lasted;  new  elements  were  added  to  poetry, 
and  new  forms  of  it  took  shape.  There  was  a  change  also  in 
the  style  and  in  the  subject  of  poetry.  Under  these  heads  I 
shall  bring  together  the  various  poetical  works  of  this  period. 

1.  The  study  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics  revived^  and 
with  it  a  more  artistic  poetry.  Not  only  correct  form,  for  which 
Pope  sought,  but  beautiful  form  was  sought  after.  Men  like 
Thomas  Gray  and  William  Collins  strove  to  pour  into  their  work 
that  simplicity  of  beauty  which  the  Greek  poets  and  Italians 
like  Petrarca  had  reached  as  the  last  result  of  genius  restrained 
by  art.  Their  poems,  published  between  1746  and  1757,  re- 
main apart  as  a  unique  type  of  poetry.  The  refined  work- 
manship of  these  poets,  their  manner  of  blending  together 
natural  feeling  and  natural  scenery,  their  studious  care  in  the 
choice  of  words  are  worthy  of  special  study. 

2.  Tlie  study  of  the  Elizabethan  and  of  the  earlier  poets  like 
Chaucer  and  of  the  whole  course  of  poetry  in  England  was 
taken  up  ivith  great  interest.  Shakespeare  and  Chaucer  had 
engaged  both  Dryden  and  Pope;  but  the  whole  subject  was 
now  enlarged.  Gray,  like  Pope,  projected  a  history  of  English 
poetry,  and  his  Ode  on  the  Progress  of  Poesy  illustrates  this 
new  interest.     Thomas  Warton  wrote  his  History  of  English 


244        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

Poetry,  1774-78,  and  in  doing  so  gave  fresh  material  to  the 
poets.  They  began  to  take  delight  in  the  childlikeness  and 
naturalness  of  Chaucer  as  distinguished  from  the  artificial  and 
critical  verse  of  the  school  of  Pope.  Shakespeare  was  studied 
in  a  more  accurate  way.  Pope's,  Theobald's,  Sir  Thomas 
Hanmer's,  and  Warburton's  editions  of  Shakespeare  were  suc- 
ceeded by  Johnson's  in  1765;  and  Garrick,  the  actor,  began  the 
restoration  of  the  genuine  text  of  Shakespeare's  plays  for  the 
stage. 

Spenser  formed  the  spirit  and  work  of  some  poets,  and  T. 
Warton  wrote  an  essay  on  the  Faerie  Queen.  William  Sheis"- 
stone's  Sclioolmistress,  1742,  was  one  of  these  Spenserian 
poems,  and  so  was  the  Castle  of  Indolence,  1748,  by  James 
Thomsoj^,  author  of  the  Seasons.  James  Beattie,  in  the 
Minstrel,  1774,  a  didactic  poem,  followed  the  stanza  and  man- 
ner of  Spenser. 

3.  A  new  element,  interest  in  the  romantic  past,  was 
added  by  the  publication  of  Dr.  Percy's  Reliqties  of  Ancient 
English  Poetry,  1765.  The  narrative  ballad  and  the  narrative 
romance,  afterwards  taken  up  and  perfected  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  now  struck  their  roots  afresh  in  English  poetry.  Men 
began  to  seek  among  the  ruder  times  of  history  for  wild,  natural 
stories  of  human  life;  and  the  pleasure  in  these  increased  and 
accompanied  the  growing  love  of  lonely,  even  of  savage, 
scenery.  The  Ossian,  1762,  of  James  Macpherson,  which 
gave  itself  out  as  a  translation  of  Gaelic  epic  poems,  is  an 
example  of  this  new  element. 

Still  more  remarkable  in  this  way  were  the  poems  of  Thom- 
as Chattertok,  the  '  marvellous  boy,'  who  died  by  his  own 
hand  in  1770,  at  the  age  of  seventeen.  They  were  imitations 
of  old  poetry.  He  pretended  to  have  discovered,  in  a  muni- 
ment room  at  Bristol,  tlie  Death  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin  and 
other  poems  by  an  imaginary  monk  named  Thomas  Rowley. 
Written  with  quaint  spelling,  and  with  a  great  deal  of  lyrical 
invention,  they  raised  around  them  a  great  controversy.     I 


Poetry — Gray^  Goldsmith,  and  Others,       245 

may  mention  as  an  instance  of  the  same  tendency,  even  before 
the  Reliques,  Gray's  translations  from  the  Norse  and  British 
poetry,  and  his  poem  of  the  Bard,  in  which  the  bards  of  Wales 
are  celebrated. 

Change  of  Style.  —We  have  seen  how  the  natural  style  of 
the  Elizabethan  poets  had  ended  by  producing  an  unnatural 
style.  In  reaction  from  this,  the  critical  poets  set  aside  natural 
feeling,  as  havmg  nothing  to  do  with  the  expression  of  thought 
In  verse,  and  wrote  according  to  rules  of  art  which  they  had 
painfully  worked  out.  Their  style  in  doing  this  lost  life  and 
fire,-  and,  losing  these,  lost  art,  which  has  its  roots  in  emotion, 
and  gained  artifice,  which  has  its  roots  in  intellectual  analysis. 
Being  unwarmed  by  any  natural  feeling,  it  became  as  un- 
natural, considered  as  a  poetic  style,  as  that  of  the  later  Eliza- 
bethan poets.  We  may  sum  up,  then,  the  whole  history  of  the 
style  of  poetry  from  Elizabeth  to  George  I. — the  style  of  the 
first-rate  poets  being  excepted — in  these  words:  Nature  witliout 
Arty  and  Art  ivWiout  Nature,  had  reached  similar  tut  not 
identical  results  in  style. 

But  in  the  process  two  things  had  been  learned.  First, 
that  artistic  rules  were  necessary,  and,  secondly,  that  natural 
feeling  was  necessary  in  order  that  poetry  should  have  a  style 
fitted  to  express  nobly  the  emotions  and  thoughts  of  man. 
The  way  was  therefore  now  made  ready  for  a  style  in  which  the 
Art  should  itself  be  Nature,  and  it  sprang  at  once  into  being 
in  the  work  of  the  poets  of  this  time.  The  style  of  Gray  and 
Collins  is  polished  to  the  finest  point,  and  yet  is  instinct  with 
natural  feeling.  Goldsmith  is  natural  even  to  simplicity,  and 
yet  his  verse  is  even  more  accurate  than  Pope's.  Cowj)er's 
style,  in  such  poems  as  the  Lines  to  his  Mother^s  Picture, 
and  in  lyrics  like  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George,  arises  out  of 
the  simplest  pathos,  and  yet  is  as  pure  in  expression  as  Greek 
poetry.  The  work  was  then  done;  but  as  yet  the  element  of 
fervent  passion  did  not  enter  into  poetry.  We  shall  see  how 
that  came  in  after  1789, 


246        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

Change  of  Subject— Nature.— Up  to  the  age  of  Pope 
the  subject  of  man  was  treated,  and  we  have  seen  how  many 
phases  it  went  through.  There  remained  the  subject  of  Na- 
ture and  of  man's  relation  to  it;  that  is,  of  the  visible  landscape, 
sea,  and  sky,  and  all  that  men  feel  m  contact  with  them. 
Natural  scenery  had  been  hitherto  used  only  as  a  background 
to  the  picture  of  human  life.  It  now  began  to  take  a  much 
larger  place  in  poetry,  and  after  a  time  grew  to  occupy  a  dis- 
tinct place  of  its  own  apart  from  Man. 

The  impulse  given  by  Thomson  to  poetry  of  this  kind  was 
soon  followed.  Men  left  the  town  to  visit  the  country  and 
record  their  feelings.  William  Somerville's  Chase,  1735, 
and  John  Dyer's  Grongar  Hill,  1726,  a  description  of  a 
journey  in  South  Wales,  and  his  Fleece,  1757,  are. full  of 
country  sights  and  scenes:  even  Akenside  mingled  his  spuri- 
ous philosophy  with  pictures  of  solitary  natural  scenery. 

Foreign  travel  now  enlarged  the  love  of  nature.  The  Let- 
ters of  Gray,  1716-1771,  some  of  the  best  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, describe  natural  scenery  with  a  minuteness  quite  new 
in  English  Literature.  In  his  poetry  he  used  the  description 
of  nature  as  Mts  most  graceful  ornament,'  but  never  made  it 
the  subject.  In  the  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  and  in 
the  Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College,  natural  sce- 
nery is  interwoven  with  reflections  on  human  life,  and  used  to 
point  its  moral.  CoLLiisrs  observes  the  same  method  in  his 
Ode  on  the  Passions  and  the  Ode  to  Evening,  There  is,  then, 
as  yet  no  love  of  nature  for  its  own  sake. 

A  further  step  was  made  by  Oliver  Goldsmith,  1728-74, 
in  his  Traveller,  1764,  a  sketch  of  national  manners  and  gov- 
ernments, and  in  his  Deserted  Village,  1770.  He  describes 
natural  scenery  with  less  emotion  than  Collins,  and  does  not 
moralize  it  like  Gray.  The  scenes  he  paints  are  pure  pictures, 
and  he  has  no  personal  interest  in  them. 

The  next  step  was  made  by  men  like  the  two  Wartons  and 
by  John  Logan,  1782.     Their  poems  do  not  speak  of  nature 


Poetry — Gray^  Goldsmith^  and  Others.       247 

and  human  life,  but  of  nature  and  themselves.  They  see  the 
reflection  of  their  own  joys  and  sorrows  in  the  woods  and 
streams,  and  for  the  first  time  the  pleasure  of  being  alone 
with  nature  apart  from  men  became  a  distinct  element  in 
modern  poetry.  In  the  later  poets  it  becomes  one  of  their 
main  subjects.  These  were  the  steps  towards  that  love  of 
nature  for  its  OAvn  sake  which  we  shall  find  in  the  poets  who 
followed  Oowper.  One  poem  of  the  time  almost  anticipates 
it.  It  is  the  Minstrels^  1771,  of  James  Beattie.  This  poem 
rejjresents  a  young  poet  educated  almost  altogether  by  lonely 
communion  with  and  love  of  nature,  and  both  in  the  spirit 
and  in  the  treatment  of  the  first  part  of  the  story  resembles 
very  closely  Wordsworth's  description  of  his  own  education  by 
nature,  in  the  beginning  of  the  Prelude,  and  the  history  of 
the  peddler  in  the  first  book  of  the  Excursion.'*^ 

"  Goldsmith  was  peculiarly  happy  in  writing  bright  and  airy  verses: 
the  grace  and  lightness  of  his  touch  have  rarely  been  approached.  The 
Denerted  Village  is  one  of  the  most  graceful  and  touching  poems  in  the 
English  language.  It  is  clear  bird-singing;  but  there  is  a  pathetic  note 
in  it.  No  one  better  knew  than  himself  the  value  of  those  finished  and 
musical  lines  he  was  gradually  adding  to  the  beautiful  poem,  the  grace 
and  sweetness  and  tender  pathetic  charm  of  which  make  it  one  of  the 
literary  treasures  of  the  English  people.'— Tr«7Zi«m  Black. 

Bibliography.  Gray.— Mitford's  Life  of;  S  Johnson's  Lives  of  Eng.  Poets; 
Howitt's  Homes  of  Brit.  Poets;  Ward's  Anthologtj;  Black.  Mag.,  v.  75,  1854;  N.  A. 
Rev.,  V.  96,  1863;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  94,  ia54. 

Collins.— Brydges'  Imagin.  Biog. ;  J.  Coleman's  Hist.  Essays;  N.  Drake's  Liter- 
ary Hours;  Ward's  Anthology. 

Goldsmith.— Irvlng's  Life  of;  Forster's  Life  and  Times  of;  De  Quincey's  Essays 
on  the  Poets;  H.  Giles'  Lectures  and  E.ssays ;  Thack.'s  Eng.  Humorists;  J.  Timbs' 
Wits  and  Humorists;  Eng.  Men  of  Let.  Series;  Macaulay's  Essays;  Eel.  Mag.,  May, 
1850,  and  Jan.,  1855. 

Readings.— Gray's  Elegy  and  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village  and  TraveUer,  pub- 
lished in  pamphlet  form  by  Clfwk  &  Maynard, 

\ 


248        Literature  of  Period  VII.,  1745-1789. 


IjESSOIST  46. 

FuRTHEK  Change  of  Subject— Man.— ''During  this  time 
the  interest  in  Mankind,  that  is,  in  Man  independent  of  na- 
tion, class,  and  caste,  which  we  nave  seen  in  prose,  and  which 
was  stimulated  by  the  works  of  Voltaire  and  Eonsseau,  began 
to  influence  poetry.  It  broke  out  into  a  fierce  extreme  in  the 
French  Kevolution,  but  long  before  that  event  it  entered  into 
poetry  in  various  ways  as  it  had  entered  into  society  and  poli- 
tics. One  form  of  it  appeared  in  the  interest  the  poets  began 
to  take  in  men  of  other  nations  than  England;  another  form 
of  it — and  this  was  increased  by  the  Methodist  revival — was 
the  interest  in  the  lives  of  the  poor.  Thomson  speaks  with 
sympathy  of  the  Siberian  exile  and  the  Mecca  pilgrim,  and 
the  Traveller  of  Goldsmith  enters  into  foreign  interests.  His 
Deserted  Village,  Shenstone's  Schoolmistress,  Gray's  Megy 
celebrate  the  annals  of  the  poor.  Michael  Bruce  in  his  Loch- 
leven  praises  the  '  secret  primrose  path  of  rural  life,'  and  Dr. 
John  Langhorne  in  his  Country  Justice  pleads  the  cause  of 
the  poor  and  paints  their  sorrows.  Connected  with  this  new 
element  is  the  simple  ballad  of  simple  love,  such  as  Shen- 
stone's Jemmy  Daiuson,  Mickle's  Marinefs  Wife,  Goldsmith's 
Edwin  and  Angelina,  poems  which  started  a  new  type  of  hu- 
man poetry,  afterwards  worked  out  more  completely  in  the 
Lyrical  Ballads  of  Wordsworth. 

In  a  class  apart  I  call  attention  to  the  Song  of  David,  along 
poem  written  by  Christopher  Smart,  a  friend  of  Johnson's. 
It  will  be  found  in  Chambers'  '  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Liter- 
ature.' Composed  for  the  most  part  in  a  madhouse,  the  song 
has  a  touch  here  and  there  of  the  overforcefulness  and  the 
lapsing  thoughts  of  a  half  insane  brain.  But  its  power  of 
metre  and  of  imaginative  presentation  of  thoughts  and  things, 
and  its  mingling  of  sweet  and  grand  religious  poetry  ought  to 
make  it  better  known.     It  is  unique  in  style  and  in  character- 


Poetry — Ramsay^  Bldke^  and  Others.        249 


Scottish  Poetry  illustrates  and  anticipates  the  poetry  of 
the  poor  and  the  ballad.  We  have  not  mentioned  it  since  Sir 
David  Lyndsay,  for,  with  the  exception  of  stray  songs,  its 
voice  was  silent  for  a  century  and  a  half.  It  revived  in  Allan^ 
Eamsay,  a  friend  of  Pope  and  Gay.  His  light  pieces  of  rus- 
tic humor  were  followed  by  the  Tea  Table  Miscellany  and  the 
Ever-Green,  collections  of  existing  Scottish  songs  mixed  up 
with  some  of  his  own.  They  carried  on  the  song  of  rural  life 
and  love  and  humor  which  Burns  perfected.  Ramsey's  pas- 
toral drama  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd,  1725,  is  a  pure,  tender, 
and  genuine  picture  of  Scottish  life  and  love  among  the  poor 
and  m  the  country. 

Robert  Ferguson  deserves  to  be  named,  because  he  kindled 
the  muse  of  Burns,  and  his  occasional  pieces,  1773,  are  chiefly 
concerned  with  the  rude  and  humorous  life  of  Edinburgh. 
The  Ballad,  always  continuous  in  Scotland,  took  a  more  mod- 
ern but  very  pathetic  form  in  such  productions  as  Auld  Robin 
Gray  and  the  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  a  mourning  for  those 
who  fell  at  Flodden  Field.  The  peculiarities  I  have  dwelt  on 
already  continue  in  this  revival.  There  is  the  same  nation- 
ality, the  same  rough  wit,  the  same  love  of  nature,  but  the 
love  of  color  has  lessened. 

The  new  elements  and  the  changes  on  which  I  have  dwelt 
are  expressed  by  three  poets — Cowper,  Crabbe,  and  Burns. 
But  before  these  we  must  mention  the  poems  of  William 
Blake,  the  artist,  and  for  three  reasons. 

1.  They  represent  the  new  elements.  TJie  Poetical  Sketches, 
written  in  1777,  illustrate  the  new  study  of  the  Elizabethan 
poets.  Blake  imitated  Spenser,  and,  in  his  short  fragment  of 
Edward  III.,  we  hear  again  and  again  the  note  of  Marlowe's 
violent  imagination.  A  short  poem  To  the  Muses  is  a  cry  for 
the  restoration  to  English  poetry  of  the  old  poetic  passion  it 
had  lost.  In  some  ballad  poems  we  trace  the  influence  rep- 
resented by  Ossian  and  given  by  the  publication  of  Percy's 
Reliques, 


250        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

2.  We  find  also  in  his  work  certain  elements  which  belonged 
to  the  second  period  of  which  I  shall  now  speak.  The  love  of 
animals  is  one.  A  great  love  of  children  and  the  poetry  of 
home  is  another.  He  also  anlicipated,  in  1789  and  1794, 
when  his  Songs  of  Innocence  and  Exi^terience  were  written,  the 
simple  natural  poetry  of  ordinary  life  which  Wordsworth  per- 
fected in  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  1798.  Further  still,  we  find  in 
these  poems  traces  of  the  democratic  element,  of  the  hatred 
of  priestcraft,  and  of  the  war  with  social  wrongs  which  came 
much  later  into  English  poetry.  We  even  find  traces  of  the 
mysticism  and  the  search  after  the  problem  of  life  that  fill  so 
much  of  our  poetry  after  1832. 

3.  But  that  which  is  most  special  in  Blake  is  his  extraordi- 
nary reproduction  of  the  spirit,  tone,  and  ring  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan songs,  of  the  inimitable  innocence  and  fearlessness 
which  belong  to  the  childhood  of  a  new  literature.  The  lit- 
tle poems  too  in  the  Songs  of  Innocence,  on  infancy  and  first 
motherhood,  and  on  subjects  like  the  Lamh,  are  without  rival 
in  our  language  for  ideal  simplicity  and  a  perfection  of  singing 
joy.  The  Songs  of  Experience  give  the  reverse  side  of  the  So7igs 
of  Innocence,  and  they  see  the  evil  of  the  world  as  a  child  with  a 
man's  heart  would  see  it — with  exaggerated  and  ghastly  hor- 
ror. Blake  stands  alone  in  our  poetry,  and  his  work  coming 
where  it  did,  between  1777  and  1794,  makes  it  the  more  re- 
markable. We  turn  now  to  William  Cowper,  who  represents 
fully  and  more  widely  than  either  Orabbe  or  Burns  the  new 
elements  on  which  I  have  dwelt. 

William  Cowper.— The  first  poems  of  William  Oowpee, 
]  731-1800,  were  the  Olney  Hymns,  1779,  written  along  with 
John  E"ewton,  and  in  these  the  religious  poetry  of  Charles 
Wesley  was  continued.  The  profound  personal  religion, 
gloomy  even  to  insanity  as  it  often  became,  which  fills  the 
whole  of  Cowper's  poetry,  introduced  a  theological  element 
into  English  poetry  which  continually  increased  till  within 
the  last  ten  years,  when  it  has  gradually  ceased. 


Foetry — Cowper.  251 


His  didactic  and  satirical  poems,  1782,  link  him  backwards 
to  the  last  age.  His  translation  of  Homer,  1791,  and  of 
shorter  pieces  from  the  Latin  and  Greek,  connects  him  with 
the  classical  influence,  his  interest  in  Milton  Avith  the  revived 
study  of  the  English  Poets.  The  playful  and  gentle  vein  of 
humor  which  he  showed  in  John  Gilpin  and  other  poems  re- 
minds us  of  Addison,  and  opened  a  new  kind  of  verse  to 
poets.  With  this  kind  of  humor  is  connected  a  simple  pathos 
of  which  Cowper  is  our  greatest  master.  The  Lines  to  Mary 
Unwm  and  to  his  Mother^s  Picture  prove,  with  the  work  of 
Blake,  that  pure  natural  feeling,  wholly  free  from  artifice,  had 
returned  to  English  song.  A  wholly  new  element  was  also 
introduced  by  him  and  Blake— the  love  of  animals  and  the 
poetry  of  their  relation  to  man,  a  vein  plentifully  worked  by 
after  poets. 

His  greatest  work  was  the  Task,  1785.  It  is  mainly  a  de- 
scription of  himself  and  his  life  in  the  country,  his  home,  his 
friends,  his  thoughts  as  he  walked,  the  quiet  landscape  of 
Olney,  the  life  of  the  poor  people  about  him,  mixed  up  with 
disquisitions  on  political  and  social  subjects,  and,  at  the  end,  a 
prophecy  of  the  victory  of  the  Kingdom  of  God.  The  change 
171  it  m  relation  to  the  subject  of  Nature  is  very  great.  Cow- 
per is  the  first  poet  who  loves  Nature  entirely  for  her  own 
sake.  He  paints  only  what  he  sees,  but  he  paints  it  with 
the  affection  of  a  child  for  a  flower  and  with  the  minute  ob- 
servation of  a  man. 

The  change  in  relation  to  the  subject  of  Man  is  equally  great. 
The  idea  of  Mankind  as  a  whole,  which  we  have  seen  growing 
up,  is  fully  formed  in  Cowper's  mind.  The  range  of  his  in- 
terests is  as  wide  as  the  world,  and  all  men  form  one  brother- 
hood. All  the  social  questions  of  Education,  Prisons,  Hospitals, 
city  and  country  life,  the  state  of  the  poor  and  their  sorrows, 
the  question  of  universal  freedom  and  of  slavery,  of  human 
wrong  and  oppression,  of  just  and  free  government,  of  inter- 
national intercourse  and  union,  and,  above  all,  the  entirely 


252        Literature  of  Period  VII.,  1745-1789. 

new  question  of  the  future  destiny  of  the  race,  as  a  whole, 
are  introduced  by  Cowper  into  English  poetry.  And  though 
splendor  and  passion  were  added,  by  the  poets  who  succeeded 
him,  to  the  new  poetry,  yet  they  worked  on  the  thoughts  he 
had  laid  down,  and  he  is  their  leader." 

"Cowper  is  one  of  the  first  symptoms,  if  not  the  originator,  of  a 
revolution  in  style  which  is  soon  to  become  a  revolution  in  ideas.  The 
'  clear,  crisp  English  '  of  his  verse  is  not  the  work  of  a  man  who  be- 
longs to  a  school,  or  follows  some  conventional  pattern.  It  is  for  his 
amusement,  he  repeats  again  and  again  in  his  letters,  that  he  is  a  poet; 
just  as  it  has  been  for  his  amusement  that  he  has  worked  in  the  garden 
and  made  rabbit-hutches.  He  writes  because  it  pleases  him,  witliout  a 
thought  of  his  fame  or  of  contriving  what  the  world  will  admire. 

The  2'ask,  his  most  characteristic  poem,  is  indeed  a  w^ork  of  great 
labor;  but  the  labor  is  not  directed,  as  Pope's  labor  was  directed,  to- 
wards methodizing  or  arranging  the  material,  towards  w-orking  up  the 
argument,  towards  forcing  the  ideas  into  the  most  striking  situations. 
The  labor  is  in  the  cadences  and  the  language;  as  for  the  thoughts,  they 
are  allowed  to  show  themselves  just  as  they  come,  in  their  natural  order, 
so  that  the  poem  reads  like  the  speech  of  a  man  talking  to  himself. 
To  turn  from  a  poem  of  Cowper's  to  a  poem  of  Pope's,  or  even  of 
Goldsmith's,  is  to  turn  from  one  sphere  of  art  to  quite  another,  from 
unconscious  to  conscious  art.  '  Formal  gardens  in  comparison  with 
woodland  scenery,'  as  Southey^aid.  And  liow  much  that  means!  It 
means  that  the  day  of  critical,  and  so-called  classical,  poetry  is  over; 
that  the  day  of  spontaneous,  natural,  romantic  poetry  has  begun.  Burns 
and  Wordsworth  are  not  yet,  but  they  are  close  at  hand.  We  read 
Cowper  not  for  his  passion  or  for  his  ideas,  but  for  his  love  of  nature 
and  his  faithful  rendering  of  her  beauty,  for  his  truth  of  portraiture, 
for  his  humor,  for  his  pathos;  for  the  refined  honesty  of  his  style,  for 
the  melancholy  interest  of  his  life,  and  for  the  simplicity  and  the  loveli- 
ness of  his  character." — Thomas  H.  Ward. 

Bibliography.  Cowper.— Cowper's  I/cffers,*  Southey's  i?/e  of ;  Bagehofs  Esti- 
mates of  some  Eng.  and  Scotchmen;  F.  Jeffrey's  Essays;  Thomson's  Celebrated 
Friendships;  Eng.  Men  of  Let.  Series;  Ward's  Anthology;  Black.  Mag.,  v.  109,1871; 
Fort.  Rev.,  v.  3,  1865;  Fraser's  Mag.,  v.  64,  1861;  Nat.  Quar.  Eev.,  v.  7,  1863;  N.  Br. 
Rev.,  V.  22, 1854;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  107, 1860. 


Poetry — Cowper^  s.  253 

LrESSOisr  47. 

Cowper's  On  tlie  Receipt  of  my  MotJiefs  Picture. 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language !    Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — tiiy  own  sweet  smiles  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  iiow  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away!" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes — 
Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it — here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here, 
Who  bidst  me  honor  with  an  artless  song. 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long, 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own. 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief. 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother !  when  I  learned  that  thou  w^ast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss— 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile!  it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial-day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu. 
But  was  it  such?    It  was.     Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  sound  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more. 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  tliemselves  at  my  concern. 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 


254        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived; 
By  disappointment  every  day  beguiled, 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot. 
But,  though  1  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more. 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin  day  by  day 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capped, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession!  but  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit  or  confectionery  plum ;  _ 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow^ed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall. 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes; — 
All  this,  still  legible  in  memory's  page. 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  ray  numbers  may; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin — 


Poetry — Cowper'  s.  255 

And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 

Wouldst  softly  speak  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile — 

Could  those  few  pleasant  hours  again  appear, 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here? 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 

Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 

But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such. 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 

That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 

Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  refle(  ted  clear  below, 
While  airs,  impregnated  with  incense,  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift!  hast  reached  the  shore 
"  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar." 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed, — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tost, 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet,  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies! 
And  now,  farewell — Time,  unrevoked,  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again ; 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine. 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine. 


^56        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

From  The  Task— The  Winter  Evening. 
Hark !  'tis  the  twanging  horn !     O'er  yonder  bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright, 
He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world, 
With  spattered  boots,  strapped  waist,  and  frozen  locks, 
News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 
True  to  his  cliarge,  the  close-packed  load  behind, 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn, 
And,  having  dropped  the  expected  bag,  pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch, 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful:  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some. 
To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 
Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks,. 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
"With  tears  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill, 
Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains, 
Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  oh  the  important  budget!  ushered  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music — who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings?     Have  our  troops  awaked? 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged, 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the,  Atlantic  wave? 
Is  India  free?  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 
And  jewelled  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still?     The  grand  debate, 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply, 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit. 
And  the  loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them  all; 
I  burn  to  set  the  imprisoned  wranglers  free. 
And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again. 


Poetry — Cowpefs.  267 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 

O  Winter!  ruler  of  the  inverted  year. 
Thy  scattered  air  with  sleet  like  ashes  filled, 
Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapt  iu  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels. 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way, — 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seemest. 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art.     Thou  hold'st  the  sun 
A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east. 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease. 
And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought. 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights. 
Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness. 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  retirement  and  the  hours 
Of  long,  uninterrupted  evening  know. 
No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates; 
No  powdered  pert,  proficient  in  the  art 
Of  sounding  an  alarm,  assaults  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings;  no  stationary  steeds 
Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound, 
The  silent  circle  fan  themselves  and  quake: 
But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task. 
The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flower, 
Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn, 
Unfolds  its  bosom;  buds  and  leaves  and  sprigs 


258        Literature  of  Period  VII.,  1745-1789. 

And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed, 

Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair; 

A  wreath  that  cannot  fade,  of  flowers  that  blow 

With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 

The  poet's  or  historian's  page,  by  one 

Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the  rest. 

The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 

The  touch  from  many  a  trembling  chord  strikes  out, 

And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet  distinct. 

And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still, 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 

On  female  industry:  the  threaded  steel 

Flies  swiftly,  and,  unfelt,  the  task  proceeds. 

LESSo:Nr  48. 

BuBNS. — *'  One  element,  the  passionate  treatment  of  love, 
had  been  on  the  whole  absent  from  our  poetry  since  the 
Restoration.  It  was  restored  by  Robekt  Burns,  1759-1796. 
In  his  love  songs  we  hear  again,  only  with  greater  truth  of 
natural  feeling,  the  same  music  which  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth 
enchanted  the  world.  It  was  as  a  love-poet  that  he  began  to 
write,  and  the  first  edition  of  his  poems  appeared  in  1786. 

He  was  not  only  the  poet  of  love,  but  also  of  the  new 
excitement  about  Man.  Himself  poor,  he  sang  the  poor. 
Neither  poverty  nor  low  birth  made  a  man  the  worse — the 
man  was  '  a  man  for  a'  that.'  He  did  the  same  work  in  Scot- 
land in  1786  which  Crabbe  began  in  England  in  1783  and 
Cowper  in  1785,  and  it  is  worth  remarking  how  the  dates 
run  together.  As  in  Cowper  so  also  in  Burns,  the  further 
widening  of  human  sympathies  is  shown  in  the  new  tender- 
ness for  animals.  The  birds,  sheep,  cattle,  and  wild  creatures 
of  the  wood  and  field  fill  as  large  a  space  in  the  poetry  of 
Burns  as  in  that  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge. 

He  carried  on  also  the  Celtic  elements  of  Scotch  poetry,  but 
he  mingled  them  with  others  specially  English.  The  rattling 
fun  of  the  Jolly  Beggars  and  of  Tarn  o'Blianter  is  united  to  a 
life-like  painting  of  human  character  which  is  peculiarly 


Poetry — Burns.  ^59 


English.  A  certain  large  gentleness  of  feeling  often  made 
his  wit  into  that  true  humor  which  is  more  English  than 
Celtic,  and  the  passionate  pathos  of  such  poems  as  Mary  in 
Heavenly  connected  with  this  vein  of  humor,. and  is  also 
more  English  than  Scotch.  The  special  nationality  of  Scotch 
poetry  is  as  strong  in  Burns  as  in  any  of  his  predecessors,  but 
it  is  also  mingled  with  a  larger  view  of  man  than  the  merely 
national  one.  Nor  did  he  fail  to  carry  on  the  Scotch  love  of 
nature,  though  he  shows  the  English  influence  in  using  natu- 
ral description,  not  for  the  love  of  nature  alone,  but  as  a 
background  for  human  love.  It  was  the  strength  of  his 
passions  and  the  weakness  of  his  moral  will  which  made  his 
poetry  and  spoilt  his  life. 

With  Eobert  Burns  poetry  written  in  the  Scotch  dialect 
may  be  said  to  say  its  last  word  of  genius,  though  it  lingered 
on  in  James  Hogg's  pretty  poem  of  Kilmeny  in  The  Queen^s 
Wake,  1813,  and  continues  a  song-making  existence  t^  the 
present  day." 

"Burns'  poetry  shares  with  all  poetry  of  the  first  order  of  excellence 
the  life  and  movement  not  of  one  age  but  of  all  ages,  that  which  belongs 
to  what  Wordsworth  calls  '  the  essential  passions  '  of  human  nature.  It 
is  the  voice  of  nature  which  we  hear  in  his  poetry,  and  it  is  of  that 
nature  one  touch  of  which  makes  the  whole  world  kin.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  any  other  poet,  ancient  or  modern,  has  evoked  as  much  per- 
sonal attachment  of  a  fervid  and  perfervid  quality  as  Burns  has  been 
able  to  draw  to  himself.  It  is  an  attachment  the  amount  and  quality  of 
which  are  not  to  be  explained  by  anything  in  the  history  of  the  man, 
anything  apart  from  the  exercise  of  his  genius  as  a  poet.  What  renders 
it  at  all  intelligible  is,  that  human  nature,  in  its  most  ordinary  shapes, 
is  more  poetical  than  it  looks,  and  that,  exactly  at  those  moments  of  its 
consciousness  in  which  it  is  most  truly,  because  most  vividly  and  power- 
fully and  poetically,  itself.  Burns  has  a  voice  to  give  to  it. 

He  is  not  the  poet's  poet,  which  Shelley  no  doubt  meant  to  be,  or  the 
philosopher's  poet,  which  Wordsworth,  in  spite  of  himself,  is.  He  is  the 
poet  of  homely  human  nature,  not  half  so  homely  or  prosaic  as  it 
seems.  The  passions  which  live  in  his  poetry  and  by  which  it  lives 
are  the  essential  passions  of  human  nature.  His  imagination,  humor, 
pathos,  the  qualities  in  respect  to  which  his  genius  is  most  powerful 


260       Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

and  opulent,  are  without  reserve  placed  at  their  disposal  and  submitted 
to  their  dictation.  His  claim  to  be  considered  the  first  of  song- writers 
is  hardly  disputed.  His  lyrical  passion  drew  its  strength  from  various 
and  opposite  sources,  from  the  clashing  experiences,  habits,  and  emo- 
tions of  a  nature  which  needed  nothing  so  much  as  regulation  and 
harmony.  But  it  is  itself  harmony  as  perfect  as  the  song  of  the  linnet 
and  the  thrush  piping  to  a  summer  evening  of  peace  on  earth  and  glory 
in  the  western  sky.  Whatever  the  poet's  eye  had  seen  of  beauty,  or 
his  heart  had  felt  of  mirth  or  sadness  or  madness,  melts  into  and  be- 
comes a  tone,  a  chord  of  music  of  which,  but  for  one  singer,  the  world 
should  hardly  have  known  the  power  to  thrill  the  universal  heart." 
— John  Sermce. 

Bibliography.  Burns.— Chambers'  Life  and  Works  of ;  T.  Carlyle's  Essays ; 
Eng.  Men  of  Let.  Series  ;  H.  Giles'  Illus.  of  Genius ;  'H.oviitfs  Homes  and  Haunts  of 
Brit.  Poets ;  John  Wilson's  Essays  ;  Ward's  Ayithology ;  H.  Miller's  Essays ;  At. 
Monthly,  v.  6,  1860;  Nat.  Quar.  Rev.,  v,  6,  1863,  and  v.  18,  1869;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  16, 
1851-2. 

Burns'  Afton  Water. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes,  ^ 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove,  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen, 
Ye  wild,  whistling  black  birds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you,  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills, 
Far  marked  with  the  courses  of  clear,  winding  rills; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high. 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow; 
There  oft  as  mild  ev'ning  weeps  over  the  lea,^ 
The  sweet  scented  birk^  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave. 
As,  gathering  sweet  flowrets,  she  stems  thy  clear  wave. 

1  Declivities.  a  Field.  «  Birch-tree. 


Poetry — Burns'  s.  261 


Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

For  A'  Thai  and  A'  That. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 
Thfi  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by — 

"We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that, 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp — 

The  man's  the  gowd  ^  for  a'  that. 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hoddin-grey,^  and  a'  that? 
Gie^  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine — 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that; 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor. 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,*  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts  and  stares  and  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  coof  ^  for  a'  that: 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  ribband,  star,  and  a'  that; 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak'  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon®  his  might, 

Gude  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that! ' 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities  and  a'  that ; 

^  Gold.         '  Coarse  woollen  cloth.         »  Give.  *  Conceited  fellow. 

•  Ninny.       •  Above.  ''  Must  not  try  that. 


262        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 

The  pith  o'  sense  and  pride  o'  worth 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  eartli, 

May  bear  the  gree  ^  and  a'  that: 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It's  com  in'  yet  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  world  ^  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that! 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson -tipped  flow'r, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure^ 

Thy  slender  stem: 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r. 

Thou  bonie  gem. 

Alas!  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonie  Lark,  companion  meet! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet  I  * 

Wi'  ^  speckl'd  breast, 
When  upward  springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  East. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  North 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 
High-shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's^  maun  shield; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield ' 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  liistie  stibble^-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

1  Be  victor.        '  A  dissyllable.  »  Dust.  *  Moisture.         «  With. 

« Walls.  '  Shelter.  '  Dry  stubble. 


Poetry-— Burns'  s,  263 


There,  ia  thy  scanty  mautle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun- ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share^  uptears  thy  bed; 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow 'ret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'u, 
"Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n 

To  mis'ry's  brink, 
Till  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  heav'n, 

He,  ruin'd,  sink! 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date ; 
Stern  ruin's  plough-share  drives,  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till  cnish'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom ! 

My  Wife's  a  Winsome  Wee  Thing, 

She  is  a  winsome'  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonie  wee  thing. 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 


-*  Plougfi-sbare.  »  Light-hearted. 


264        Literature  of  Period  YIL,  1745-1789. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer, 
And  neist^  my  heart  I'll  wear  her, 
For  fear  my  jewel  tine.^ 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  bonie  wee  thing. 

This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 
The  warld's  wrack^  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle*  and  the  care  o't; 
Wi'  her  I'll  blythely  bear  it. 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 

Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend. 
I  lang  hae  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend, 

A  something  to  have  sent  you, 
Tho'  it  should  serve  nae  other  end 

Than  just  a  kind  memento; 
But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang,^ 

Let  time  and  chance  determine; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang, 

Perhaps,  turn  out  a  sermon. 

Ye'll  try  the  world  soon,  my  lad. 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me, 
Ye'll  find  mankind  an  unco  squad  ^ 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye: 
For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 

Ev'n  when  your  end's  attained; 
And  a'  your  views  may  come  to  nought, 

"When  ev'ry  nerve  is  strained. 

I'll  no  say  men  are  villains  a'; 

The  real,  hardened  wicked 
Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law 

Are  to  a  few  restricked. 
But,  och!  mankind  are  unco  weak, 

An'  little  to  be  trusted; 
If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake, 

It's  rarely  right  adjusted ! 

1  Next,       *  To  lose.       ^  Trouble.       *  Struggle.       ^  Go.       « Strange  crew. 


Poetry — Burns' s.  265 


Yet  they  wha  fa'>  in  fortune's  strife, 

Their  fate  we  shouldna  censure. 
For  still  the  important  end  of  life 

They  equally  may  answer: 
A  man  may  hae  an  honest  heart, 

Tho'  poortith^  hourly  stare  him; 
A  man  may  tak  a  neebor's  part 

Yet  hae  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 

Aye  free,  aff-han',^  your  story  tell, 

When  wi'  a  bosom  crony ; 
But  still  keep  something  to  yourse- 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony.* 
Conceal  yoursel  as  weel's  ye  can 

Frae  critical  dissection; 
But  keek^  thro'  ev'ry  other  man 

Wi'  sharpen'd,  sly  inspection. 

The  sacred  lowe*  o'  weel-plac'd  loVc 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Tho'  nae  thing  should  divulge  it* 
I  wave  the  quantum'  o'  the  sin. 

The  hazard  o'  concealing  ; 
But,  och !  it  hardens  a'  within. 

And  petrifies  the  feeling! 

To  catch  Dame  Fortune's  golden  smile 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her ; 
And  gather  gear^  by  ev'ry  wile 

That's  justified  by  honor: 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Nor  for  a  train  attendant, 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 

The  fear  o'  hell's  a  hangman's  whip 
To  baud  ^  the  wretch  in  order ; 

But  where  ye  feel  your  honor  grip^'^ 
Let  that  aye  be  your  border: 


J  Who  fall.  '  Poverty.  »  Off-hand.  *  Any.  »  Peep. 

•  Flame,  ''  Amount.  ^  Riches.  » Hold.         "  Touched. 


266        Literature  of  Period  VIL,  1745-1789. 


Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause — 

Debar  a'  side  pretences ; 
And  resolutely  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere 

Must  sure  become  the  creature : 
But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear, 

And  ev'n  the  rigid  feature; 
Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range 

Be  complaisance^  extended; 
An  atheist  laugh's  a  poor  exchange 

For  Deity  offended ! 

When  ranting  round  in  pleasure's  ring, 

Religion  may  be  blinded; 
Or,  if  she  gie^  a  random  sting, 

It  may  be  little  minded ; 
But  when  on  life  w^e're  tempest-driv'n, — 

A  conscience  but^  a  canker, 
A  correspondence  fix'd  wi'  Heav'n 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor! 

Adieu,  dear,  amiable  youth! 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting! 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting! 
In  ploughman  phrase,  "  God  send  you  speed,"* 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser; 
And  may  ye  better  reck  the  rede^ 

Then  ever  did  th'  Adviser! 

Highland  Mary. 
Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery! 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie :  ^ 
There  simmer''  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

»  Courtesy.  2  Give.  ^  Without.  *  Success.  ^  Heed  the  advice.  *  Muddy.  ''  Summer, 


Poetry — Burns' s. 


267 


How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay,  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life, 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder: 
But,  oh !  fell  death's  untimely  frost. 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary. 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 
And  mould'ring  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


Scheme  for  Review. 


do 

a 


Historical  Sketch 225 

A  Good  Style 226 

The  Long  Peace 226 

The  Press 226 

.Continental  Influence.  227 

^  fRichardson 228 

A  I  \  Sterne  and  Goldsmith.  229 
1^    !«5  [Fielding— Extract....  229 

*  ^Hume  and  Gibbon 233 

Biography  and  Travels.  235 
H  [Extract  from  Gibbon. .  286 

Philosophical— Hume 239 

Political— Burke,  A.  Smith  239 
.Miscellaneous— Johnson  . .  241 


Study  of  Classics  Revived.  243 
Study  of  Chaucer  and  the 

Elizabethan  Poets 243 

Interest  in  the  Past 244 

Change  of  Style 245 

Nature  the  Subject 246 

Man  the  Subject 248 

Scottish  Poetry 249 

Blake's  Poetry 249 

Man  and  Nature  in  Cow- 

per's  Poetry 250 

Extracts  from 253 

Burns — the  Love-Poet 258 

Extracts  from 360 


FETII033  VIII. 

Feom  the  French  Revolution  Onwards, 

1789 . 


Brief  Historical  Sketch.— In  1793  war  began  with  France;  it  ended 
June  18,  1815.  Vaccination  introduced,  1796.  Rebellion  in  Ireland 
put  down,  1800.  Union  of  Ireland  with  England,  1800.  Undulatory 
theory  of  light  established,  1802.  Battle  of  Trafalgar  and  death  of 
Nelson,  1805.  Death  of  Pitt,  1806.  Slave  Trade  abolished,  1807. 
Against  Napoleon's  Berlin  decree,  1806,  which  made  it  lawful  for 
French  vessels  to  seize  neutral  vessels  sailing  from  English  ports 
with  English  merchandise,  the  celebrated  retaliatory  Orders  in  Council 
are  issued,  1807,  declaring  France  and  all  subject  states  in  a  state  of 
blockade  and  that  vessels  attempting  to  trade  with  their  ports  may  be 
seized.  In  1807  the  American  Congress  retaliates  with  the  Embargo, 
and  in  1809  prohibits  intercourse  with  England  and  France  till  the  re- 
strictions on  neutral  commerce  are  relaxed.  War  declared  against  the 
U.  S.in  1812,  ended,  1814.  Streets  of  London  first  lighted  with  gas,  1814. 
Holy  Alliance  formed,  1815.  First  steamer,  the  Savannah,  crosses  the 
Atlantic,  1819.  George  IV.  comes  to  the  throne,  1820.  Roman  Catholics 
admitted  to  Parliament,  1829,  First  Railway,  from  Liverpool  to  Manches- 
ter, 1830.  Wm.  IV.  succeeds  Geo.  IV.,  1830.  Reform  Bill,  1832.  Slavery 
abolished  in  British  colonies,  1833.  East  India  trade  thrown  open,  1833. 
Great  "Tractarian  Movement"  by  Newman,  Pusey,  and  Keble  begun, 
1833.  System  of  National  Education  begun,  1834.  Victoria  succeeds 
William  IV.,  1837.  The  Opium  War  with  China,  1839.  Penny  Postage, 
1840.  Transportation  for  Crime  abandoned,  1840.  Ashburton  Treaty 
respecting  our  N.  E.  boundary,  1842.  Potato  famine  in  Ireland,  1845. 
Treaty  determining  the  boundary  of  Oregon,  1846.  Corn  Laws  repealed, 
1846.  French  Revolution  and  flight  of  Louis  Philippe  to  England,  1848. 
Suppression  of  the  Chartists  and  of  Irish  rebels,  1848.  Peel's  death, 
1850.  Crystal  Palace  Exhibition,  1851.  Crimean  War,  1854-5.  Sepoy 
Mutiny  in  India,  1857-8.    East  India  Co.  abolished,  and  sovereignty  of 


Prose — JV^ovds — ScoU  and  Others,  271 

India  transferred  to  the  Crown,  1858.  Jews  admitted  to  Parliament, 
1858.  Death  of  Prince  Albert,  1861.  Civil  War  in  the  U.  S.,  1861-5. 
First  Cable  between  Europe  and  America,  1866 .  Irish  Church  dis-estab- 
lished,  1869.  Abolition  of  religious  tests  in  the  Universities  and  of  pur- 
chase in  the  army,  1871.  Alabama  Claims  Treaty  negotiated  at  Wash- 
ington, 1871.  Tribunal  of  Arbitration  meets  at  Geneva,  same  year,  and 
awards  for  loss  of  ships  and  cargoes  and  for  interest,  $15,500,000. 
Victoria  becomes  Empress  of  India,  1876.     Irish  Land  Bill,  1881. 


Lesson  50. 

Peose — Novels. — ^^The  interest  kindled  in  political  ques- 
tions by  the  French  Kevolution  showed  itself  in  a  new  class  of 
novels,  and  the  Political  stories  of  Holcroft  and  William 
GoDWiH  opened  a  new  realm  to  the  novelist,  while  the  latter 
excluded  love  altogether  from  his  story  of  Caleb  Williams. 
Mrs.  Opie  made  Domestic  life  the  sphere  of  her  graceful  and 
pathetic  stories,  1806.  Miss  Edgeworth,  in  her  Irish  stories, 
gave  the  first  impulse  to  the  novel  of  National  character,  and, 
in  her  other  tales,  to  the  novel  with  a  Moral  purpose,  1801- 
1811.  Miss  Austen^,  1775-1817,  with  'an  exquisite  touch 
which  renders  commonplace  things  and  characters  interesting 
from  truth  of  description  and  sentiment,'  produced  the  best 
stories  we  have  of  everyday  English  society.  Sense  and 
SensiMlity y  Pride  and  Prejudice,  Emma,  Mansfield  Park,  and 
Persuasion  were  all  written  between  1811  and  1817. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  1771-1832,  the  great  Enchanter,  now 
began  the  long  series  of  his  novels.  Men  are  still  alive  who 
well  remember  the  wonder  and  delight  of  the  land  when 
Waverley,  1814,  was  published.  In  the  rapidity  of  his  work, 
Scott  recalls  the  Elizabethan  time.  Ouy  Mannering,  his  next 
tale,  was  written  in  six  weeks.  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  as 
great  in  fateful  pathos  as  Romeo  and  Juliet,  was  done  in  a 
fortnight. 

His  national  tales,  such  as  The  Heart  of  Midlothian  and 
The  Antiquary,  are  written  as  if  he  saw  directly  all  the  char- 


270       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


acters  and  scenes,  and,  when  he  saw  them,  enjoyed  them  so 
much  that  he  could  not  help  writing  them  down.  And  the 
art  with  which  this  was  done  was  so  inspired  that,  since  Shake- 
speare, there  is  nothing  we  can  compare  to  it.  '  All  is  great  in 
the  Wayerley  Novels,'  says  Goethe,  *  material,  effects,  charac- 
ters, execution.'  In  the  vivid  portraiture  and  dramatic  telling 
of  such  tales  as  Kenilworth  and  Quentin  Durward,  he  created 
the  Historical  Novel.  His  last  tale  of  power  was  the  Fair 
Maid  of  Perth  in  1828;  his  last  effort  in  1831  was  made  the 
year  before  he  died.  He  raised  the  whole  of  the  literature  of 
the  novel  into  one  of  the  greatest  influences  that  bear  on  the 
human  mind.  The  words  his  uncle  once  said  to  him  may  be 
applied  to  the  work  he  did, — *  God  bless  thee,  Walter,  my 
man!  Thou  hast  risen  to  be  great,  but  thou  wast  always 
good.' " 

"  I  do  not  think  one  of  his  successors  can  compare  with  him  for  a 
moment  in  the  ease  and  truth  witli  which  he  painted  not  merely  the  life 
of  his  own  time  and  country— seldom,  indeed,  that  of  precisely  his 
own  time — but  that  of  days  long  past,  and  often,  too,  of  scenes  far 
distant.  Scott  needed  a  certain  largeness  of  type,  a  strongly  marked 
class-life,  and,  where  it  was  possible,  a  free,  out-of-doors  life,  for  his 
delineations.  No  one  could  paint  beggars  and  gipsies  and  wandering 
fiddlers  and  mercenary  soldiers  and  peasants  and  farmers  and  lawyers 
and  magistrates  and  preachers  and  courtiers  and  statesmen  and,  best  of 
all,  perhaps,  queens  and  kings  with  anything  like  his  ability.  But, 
when  it  came  to  describing  the  small  differences  of  manner,  differences 
not  due  to  external  habits  so  much  as  to  internal  sentiment  or  education 
or  mere  domestic  circumstance,  he  was  beyond  his  proper  field.  And  it 
was  well  for  the  world  that  it  was  so.  The  domestic  novel,  when  really 
of  the  highest  kind,  is  no  doubt  a  perfect  work  of  art,  and  an  unfailing 
source  of  amusement;  but  it  has  nothing  of  the  tonic  influence,  the  large 
instructiveness,  the  stimulating  air  of  Scott's  historic  tales. 

His  conception  of  women  of  his  own  or  of  a  higher  class  was  always 
too  romantic.  He  hardly  ventured,  as  it  were,  in  his  tenderness  for 
them,  to  look  deeply  into  their  little  weaknesses  and  intricacies  of  charac- 
ter. With  women  of  an  inferior  class  he  had  not  this  feeling.  But  once 
make  a  woman  beautiful  or  in  any  way  an  object  of  homage  to  him,  and 
Scott  bowed  so  low  before  the  image  of  her  that  he  could  not  go  deep 


Prose— Scotfs.  271 


into  her  heart.  He  could  no  more  have  analyzed  such  a  woman,  as 
Thackeray  analyzed  Lady  Castlewood  or  Amelia  or  Becky,  or  as  George 
Eliot  analyzed  Rosamond  Vmcy,  than  he  could  have  vivisected  Camp 
or  Maida^  To  some  extent,  therefore,  Scott's  pictures  of  women  remain 
something  in  the  style  of  the  miniatures  of  the  last  age — bright  and 
beautiful  beings  without  any  special  character  in  them.  But  then  how 
living  are  his  men,  whether  coarse  or  noble!" — Richard  H.  Hutton. 

Bibliography.  Scott.— Lockhart  Life  of;  D.  Masson's  Brit.  Novelists;  W.  H. 
Prescott's  Miscellanies;  Bulwer's  Crit.  Writings;  Carlyle's  Essays;  Eng.  Men  of 
Let.  Series;  L.  Stephen's  Hours  in  a  Library;  H.  Martineau's  Miscellanies;  Harper's 
Month.,  vs.  26,  36,  43,  and  44;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v.  87,  1858;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  124, 1868;  Alli- 
bone's  Crit.  Dictionary. 

From  Scott's  Ouy  Mannering. 

This  was  Abel  Sampson,  commonly  called,  from  his  occupation  as  a 
pedagogue,  Dominie  Sampson.  He  was  of  low  birth,  but  having 
evinced,  even  from  his  cradle,  an  uncommon  seriousness  of  disposition, 
the  poor  parents  were  encouraged  to  hope  that  their  bairn,'^  as  they  ex- 
pressed it,  "might  wag  his  pow^  in  a  pulpit  yet."  "With  an  ambitious 
view  to  such  a  consummation,  they  pinched  and  pared,  rose  early  and  lay 
down  late,  ate  dry  bread  and  drank  cold  water,  to  secure  to  Abel  the 
means  of  learning.  Meantime,  his  tall,  ungainly  figure,  his  taciturn  and 
grave  manners,  and  some  grotesque  habits  of  swinging  his  limbs  and 
screwing  his  visage  while  reciting  his  task  made  poor  Sampson  the 
ridicule  of  all  his  school-companions.  The  same  qualities  secured  him 
at  Glasgow  College  a  plentiful  share  of  the  same  sort  of  notice.  Half 
the  youthful  mob  of  "  the  yards"  used  to  assemble  regularly  to  see  Dom- 
inie Sampson  (for  he  had  already  attained  that  honorable  title)  descend 
the  stairs  from  the  Greek  class,  with  his  lexicon  under  his  arm,  his  long 
misshapen  legs  sprawling  abroad,  and  keeping  awkward  time  to  the 
play  of  his  immense  shoulder  blades, ,  as  they  raised  and  depressed  the 
loose  and  threadbare  black  coat  which  was  his  constant  and  only  wear. 
When  he  spoke,  the  efforts  of  the  professor  (professor  of  divinity, 
though  he  was)  were  totally  inadequate  to  restrain  the  inextinguishable 
laughter  of  the  students,  and  sometimes  even  to  repress  his  own.  The 
long,  sallow  visage,  the  goggle  eyes,  the  huge  under  jaw,  which  ap- 
peared not  to  open  and  shut  by  an  act  of  volition,  but  to  be  dropped 
and  hoisted  up  again  by  some  complicated  machinery  within  the  inner 
man,  the  harsh  and  dissonant  voice,  and  the  screech-owl  notes  to  which 

1  His  favorite  dogs.  "  Child.  »  Head. 


272       Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


it  was  exalted  when  he  was  exhorted  to  pronounce  more  distinctly, — 
all  added  fresh  subject  for  mirth  to  the  torn  cloak  and  shattered  shoe, 
which  have  afforded  legitimate  subjects  of  raillery  against  the  poor 
scholar,  from  Juvenal's^  time  downward.  It  was  never  known  that 
Sampson  either  exhibited  irritability  at  this  ill  usage,  Or  made  the  least 
attempt  to  retort  upon  his  tormentors.  He  slunk  from  college  by  the 
most  secret  paths  he  could  discover,  and  plunged  himself  into  his 
miserable  lodging,  where,  for  eighteen-pence  a  week,  he  was  allowed 
the  benefit  of  a  straw  mattress,  and,  if  his  landlady  was  in  good  humor, 
permission  to  study  his  task  by  her  fire.  Under  all  these  disadvantages, 
he  obtained  a  competent  knowledge  of  Greek  and  Latin,  and  some  ac- 
quaintance with  the  sciences. 

In  progress  of  time,  Abel  Sampson,  probationer  of  divinity,  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  privileges  of  a  preacher.  But,  alas!  partly  from  his  own 
bashfulness,  partly  owing  to  a  strong  and  obvious  disposition  to  risi- 
bility, which  pervaded  the  congregation  upon  his  first  attempt,  he  be- 
came totally  incapable  of  proceeding  in  his  intended  discourse — gasped, 
grinned  hideously,  rolled  his  eyes  till  the  congregation  thought  them 
flying  out  of  his  head — shut  the  Bible — stumbled  down  the  pulpit- 
stairs,  trampling  upon  the  old  women  who  generally  take  their  station 
there, — and  was  ever  after  designated  as  a  "  stickit^  minister."  And 
thus  he  wandered  back  to  his  own  country,  with  blighted  hopes  and 
prospects,  to  share  the  poverty  of  his  parents.  As  he  had  neither  friend 
nor  confidant,  hardly  even  an  acquaintance,  no  one  had  the  means  of 
observing  closely  how  Dominie  Sampson  bore  a  disappointment  which 
supplied  the  whole  town  with  a  week's  sport.  To  all  appearance,  the 
equanimity  of  Sampson  was  unshaken.  He  sought  to  assist  his  parents 
by  teaching  a  school,  and  soon  had  plenty  of  scholars,  but  very  few  fees. 
In  fact,  he  taught  the  sons  of  farmers  for  what  they  chose  to  give  him, 
and  the  poor  for  nothing;  and,  to  the  shame  of  the  former  be  it  spoken, 
the  pedagogue's  gains  never  equalled  those  of  a  skilful  ploughman.  He 
wrote,  however,  a  good  hand,  and  added  something  to  his  pittance  by 
copying  accounts  and  writing  letters  for  Ellangowan. 

Now  it  must  be  confessed  that  our  friend  Sampson,  although  a  pro- 
found scholar  and  mathematician,  had  not  travelled  so  far  in  philosophy 
as  to  doubt  the  reality  of  witchcraft  or  apparitions.  Born,  indeed,'  at  a 
time  when  a  doubt  in  the  existence  of  witches  was  interpreted  as  equiva- 
lent to  a  justification  of  their  infernal  practices,  a  belief  of  such  legends 

1 A  noted  Roman  Satirist.  "^  Incompetent. 


Prose— ScoWs,  273 


had  been  impressed  upon  the  Dominie  as  an  article  indivisible  from  his 
religious  faith;  and  perhaps  it  would  have  been  equally  difficult  to  have 
induced  him  to  doubt  the  one  as  the  other.  With  these  feelings,  and  in 
a  thick,  misty  day,  which  was  already  drawing  to  its  close.  Dominie 
Sampson  did  not  pass  the  Kairn  of  Derncleugh  without  some  feelings  of 
tacit  horror. 

What,  then,  was  his  astonishment,  when,  on  passing  the  door — that 
door  which  was  supposed  to  have  been  placed  there  by  one  of  the  later 
Lairds  of  EUangowan  to  prevent  presumptuous  strangers  from  incur- 
ring the  dangers  of  the  haunted  vault — that  door  supposed  to  be  always 
locked,  and  the  key  of  which  was  popularly  said  to  be  deposited  with 
the  presbytery — that  door,  that  very  door  opened  suddenly,  and  the 
figure  of  Meg  Merrilies,  well  known,  though  not  seen  for  many  a  revolv- 
ing year,  was  placed  at  once  before  the  eyes  of  the  startled  Dominie !  She 
stood  immediately  before  him  in  the  foot-path,  confronting  him  so  ab- 
solutely that  he  could  not  avoid  her  except  by  fairly  turning  back, 
which  his  manhood  prevented  him  from  thinking  of. 

"I  kenn'd^  ye  wad^  be  here,"  she  said  with  her  harsh  and  hollow 
voice;  "  I  ken  wha^  ye  seek,  but  ye  maun^  do  my  bidding." 

"Get  thee  behind  me!"  said  the  alarmed  Dominie — "Avoid  yG\ — 
Conjuro  te  scelesiissima — iniquissima — atque  miserrima — Coiijuro  te!!!'^ 

Meg  stood  her  ground  against  this  tremendous  volley  of  superlatives, 
which  Sampson  hawked  up  from  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  and  hurled  at 
her  in  thunder.     "Is  the  carl  daft,"  ^  she  said,  "  wi'  his  glamour?"  "^ 

"  Conjuro,"  continued  the  Dominie,  "abjm^o,^  contestor^ — " 

"What,  in  the  name  of  Sathau,  are  ye  feared  for,  wi'  your  French 
gibberish^  that  would  make  a  dog  sick?  Listen,  ye  stickit  stibbler,'"  to 
what  I  tell  ye,  or  ye  sail  rue"  it  while  there's  a  limb  o'  ye  hings  to 
anither!  Tell  Colonel  Mannering  that  I  ken  he's  seeking  me.  He  kens, 
and  I  ken,  that  the  blood  will  be  wiped  out,  and  the  lost  will  be  found, 

And  Bertram's  right  and  Bertram's  might 
Shall  meet  on  Ellangowan  height. 

Hae,  there's  a  letter  to  him ;  I  was  gaun''^  to  send  it  in  another  way. — I  can- 
na  write  mysell;  but  I  hae'^  them  that  will  baith  write  and  read,  and  ride 
and  rin  for  me.     Tell  him  the  time's  coming  now  and  the  weird's  dreed  ''* 


1  Knew.  *  Would.  ^  Who.  *  Must.  ^  I  adjure  thee  thou  most  accursed,  spite- 
ful, and  wretched  one,  I  adjure  thee.  ^  Man  foolish.  "<  Spell.  «  \  swear  and  attest. 
» Inarticulate  babble,  lo  Good-for-nothing  minister.  ii  Shall  repent.  12  Qoing. 
i'  Have.    "  Fate  is  accomplished. 


274       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


and  the  wheel's  turning.     Bid  him  look  at  the  stars,  as  he  has  looked  at 
them  before. — Will  ye  mind  a'  this?" 

"  Assuredly,"  said  the  Dominie,  "I  am  dubious— for,  woman,  I  am 
perturbed  at  thy  words,  and  my  flesh  quakes  to  hear  thee." 

"They'll  do  you  nae'  ill  though,  and  may  be  muckle  gude." '^ 
•    "Avoid  ye!  I  desire  no  good  that  comes  by  unlawful  means." 

"  Fulebody  that  thou  art!"  said  Meg,  stepping  up  to  him  with  a  frown 
of  indignation  that  made  her  dark  eyes  flash  like  lamps  from  under  her 
bent  brows — "Fule-body!  If  I  meant  ye  wrang,  couldna  I  clod^  ye 
over  that  craig,  and  wad  man  ken  how  ye  cam  by  your  end  mair  than 
Frank  Kennedy?    Hear  ye  that,  ye  worricow?"^ 

"In  the  name  of  all  that  is  good,"  said  the  Dominie,  recoiling,  and 
pointing  his  long  pewter-headed  walking-cane  like  a  javelin  at  the  sup- 
posed sorceress, — "in  the  name  of  all  that  is  good,  bide^  off  hands!  I 
will  not  be  handled — woman,  stand  off,  upon  thine  own  proper  peril! — 
desist,  I  say — I  am  strong — lo,  I  will  resist!"  Here  his  speech  was  cut 
short;  for  Meg,  armed  with  supernatural  strength,  (as  the  Dominie  as- 
serted) broke  in  upon  his  guard,  put  by  a  thrust  which  he  made  at  her 
with  his  cane,  and  lifted  him  into  the  vault,  "  as  easily,"  said  he,  "as  I 
could  sway  a  Kitchen's  Atlas. " . 

"  Sit  down  there,"  she  said,  pushing  the  half-throttled  preacher  with 
some  violence  against  a  broken  chair — "sit  down  there,  and  gather  your 
wind  and  your  senses,  ye  black  barrow- tram^  of  the  Kirk''  that  ye  are! 
Are  ye  fou^  or  fasting?" 

"Fasting — from  all  but  sin,"  answered  the  Dominie,  who,  recovering 
his  voice,  and  finding  his  exorcisms  only  served  to  exasperate  the  in- 
tractable sorceress,  thought  it  best  to  affect  complaisance  and  submission, 
inwardly  conning  over,  however,  the  wholesome  conjurations  which  he 
durst  no  longer  utter  aloud.  But  as  the  Dominie's  brain  was  by  no 
means  equal  to  carry  on  two  trains  of  ideas  at  the  same  time,  a  word  or 
two  of  his  mental  exercise  sometimes  escaped,  and  mingled  with  his 
uttered  speech  in  a  manner  ludicrous  enough,  especially  as  the  poor  man 
shrunk  himself  together  after  every  escape  of  the  kind,  from  terror  of 
the  effect  it  might  produce  upon  the  irritable  feelings  of  the  witch. 

Meg,  in  the  meanwhile,  went  to  a  great  black  cauldron  that  was  boil- 
ing on  a  fire  on  the  floor,  and,  lifting  the  lid,  an  odor  was  diffused 
through  the  vault,  which,  if  the  vapors  of  a  witch's  cauldron  could  in 
aught  be  trusted,  promised  better  things  than  the  hell-broth  which  such 
vessels  are  usually  supposed  to  contain.     It  was,  in  fact,  the  savor  of  a 

1  No.    2  Much  good.    ^  Throw.    <  Scarecrow.    ^  Keep.    »  A  terra  derisive  of  his 
ministerial  office.    "^  Church.    ^  Drunk. 


Prose— Scotfs,  275 


goodly  stew,  composed  of  fowls,  hares,  partridges,  and  moorgame, 
boiled  in  a  large  mess  with  potatoes,  onions,  and  leeks,  and,  from  the 
size  of  the  cauldron,  appeared  to  be  prepared  for  half  a  dozen  people 
at  least. 

"So  ye  hae  eat  nae thing  a'  day?"  said  Meg,  heaving  a  large  portion 
of  this  mess  into  a  brown  dish,  and  strewing  it  savorily  with  salt  and 
pepper. 

' '  Nothing, "  answ^ered  the  Dominie — ' '  scelestissima — that  is,  gude  wife. " 

"Hae,  then,"  said  she,  placing  the  dish  before  him,  "there's  what 
will  warm  your  heart," 

"  I  do  not  hunger — malefica^ — that  is  to  say— Mrs.  Merrilies!"  for  he 
said  unto  himself,  "The  savor  is  sweet,  but  it  hath  been  cooked  by  a 
Canidia^  or  an  ErichthotJ."^ 

"  If  ye  dinna  eat  instantly,  and  put  some  saul  in  ye,  by  the  bread  and 
the  salt,  I'll  put  it  down  your  throat  wi'  the  cutty^  spoon,  scaulding  as  it 
is,  and  whether  ye  will  or  no.     Gape,^  sinner,  and  swallow." 

Sampson,  afraid  of  eye  of  newt,^  and  toe  of  frog,  tigers'  chaudrons,'' 
and  so  forth,  had  determined  not  to  venture;  but  the  smell  of  the  stew  was 
fast  melting  his  obstinacy,  which  flowed  from  his  chops  as  it  were  in 
streams  of  water,  and  the  witch's  threats  decided  him  to  feed.  Hunger 
and  fear  are  excellent  casuists. 

"Saul,"  said  Hunger,  "feasted  with  the  witch  of  Endor."  "And," 
quoth  Fear,  "the  salt  which  she  sprinkled  upon  the  food  showeth 
plainly  it  is  not  a  necromantic  banquet,  in  which  that  seasoning  never 
occurs."  "And  besides,"  says  Hunger,  after  the  first  spoonful,  "  it  is 
savory  and  refreshing  viands." 

"  So  ye  like  the  meat?"  said  the  hostess. 

"  Yea,"  answered  the  Dominie,  "and  I  give  thee  thanks — sceleratis- 
simaf  s — which  means — Mrs.  Margaret. " 

"  Aweel,  eat  your  fill,  but,  an^  ye  kenn'd  how  it  was  gotten,  ye  may 
be  wadna  like  it  sae  weel."  Sampson's  spoon  dropped,  in  the  act  of 
carrying  its  load  to  his  mouth.  "  There's  been  mony  a  moonlight  watch 
to  bring  a'  that  trade  thegither,"  ^^  continued  Meg, — "  the  folk  that  are 
to  eat  that  dinner  thought  little  o'  your  game-laws." 

"Is  that  all?"  thought  Sampson,  resuming  his  spoon,  and  shovelling 
away  manfully;  "I  will  not  lack  my  food  upon  that  argument." 

"  Now,  ye  maun  tak  a  dram." 

"I  will,"  quoth  Sampson — "Conjuro  te — that  is,  I  thank  you  heartily," 

1  Evil-doer.  2  ^  reputed  sorceress  at  Rome.  ^  A  Thessalian  witch.  *  A  large 
dish  spoon.  s  Open  the  mouth.  «  Lizard.  ''  Entrails— an  allusion  to  the  opening 
scene  in  Macbeth.    ^  Most  wicked  one.    » If .    i"  Stuff  together. 


276       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


for  he  thought  to  himself,  in  for  a  penny  in  for  a  pound;  and  he  fairly 
drank  the  witch's  health  in  a  cupful  of  brandy.  When  he  had  put  this 
cope-stone'  upon  Meg's  good  cheer,  he  felt,  as  he  said,  mightily  ele- 
vated and  afraid  of  no  evil  which  could  befall  unto  him. 

"  Will  ye  remember  my  errand  now?"  said  Meg  Merrilies;  "  I  ken  by 
the  cast  o'  your  ee^  that  ye're  anither  man  than  when  ye  cam  in. " 

"I  will,  Mrs.  Margaret,"  repeated  Sampson  stoutly;  " I  will  deliver 
unto  him  the  sealed  yepistle,  and  I  will  add  what  you  please  to  send  by 
word  of  mouth," 

"  Then  I'll  make  it  short,"  says  Meg.  "  Tell  him  to  look  at  the  stars 
without  fail  this  night,  and  to  do  what  I  desire  him  in  that  letter,  as  he 
would  wish 

That  Bertram's  right  and  Bertram's  might 
Should  meet  on  Ellangowan  height. 

I  have  seen  him  twice  when  he  saw  na  me ;  I  ken  when  he  was  in  the 
country  first,  and  I  ken  what's  brought  him  back  again.  Up,  an'  to  the 
gate!  ye're  ower  lang  here — follow  me." 

Sampson  followed  the  sibyl  accordingly,  who  guided  him  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  through  the  woods,  by  a  shorter  cut  than  he  could 
have  found  for  himself;  they  then  entered  upon  the  common,  Meg  still 
marching  before  him  at  a  great  pace,  until  she  gained  the  top  of  a  small 
hillock  which  overhung  the  road. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "  stand  still  here.  Look  how  the  setting  sun  breaks 
through  yon  cloud  that's  been  darkening  the  lift  ^  a'  day.  See  where  the 
first  stream  o'  light  fa's"* — it's  upon  Donagild's  round  tower — the  auldest 
tower  in  the  Castle  of  Ellangowan — that's  no  for  naething!  See  as  it's 
glooming^  to  seaward  abune^  yon  sloop  in  the  bay — that's  no  for  nae- 
thing, neither.  Here  I  stood  on  this  very  spot,"  said  she,  drawing  herself 
up  so  as  not  to  lose  one  hair-breadth  of  her  uncommon  height,  and 
stretching  out  her  long,  sinewy  arm  and  clenched  hand — "  here  I  stood 
when  I  tauld  the  last  Laird  o'  Ellangowan  what  was  coming  on  his 
house;  and  did  that  fa'  to  the  ground?  Na— it  hit  even  ower  sair!' 
And  here,  where  I  broke  the  wand  of  peace  ower  him — here  I  stand 
again — to  bid  God  bless  and  prosper  the  just  heir  of  Ellangowan,  that 
will  sure  be  brought  to  his  ain;^  and  the  best  laird  he  shall  be  that  El- 
langowan has  seen  for  three  hundred  years.  I'll  no  live  to  see  it,  may- 
be; but  there  will  be  mony  a  blythe  ee  see  it,  though  mine  be  closed. 
And  now,  Abel  Sampson,  as  ever  ye  lo'ed  the  house  of  Ellangowan, 

» Top-stone.    "Eye.    ^Sky.    *  Falls.    *  Darkening.    « Above.    ''Too  sorely.    « Own. 


Prose — Novels.  277 


away  wi'  my  message  to  the  English  Colonel,  as  if  life  and  death  were 
upon  your  haste." 

So  saying,  she  turned  suddenly  from  the  amazed  Dominie,  and  re- 
gained with  swift  and  long  strides  the  shelter  of  the  wood  from  which 
she  had  issued,  at  the  point  where  it  most  encroached  upon  the  com- 
mon, Sampson  gazed  after  her  for  a  moment  in  utter  astonishment, 
and  then  obeyed  her  directions,  hurrying  to  Woodbourne  at  a  pace 
very  unusual  for  him,  exclaiming  three  times,  "Prodigious!  prodigious! 
pro-di-gi-ous!" 

Lessoist  51. 

Novels. — *'Johi^  Galt  and  Miss  Ferrier  followed  Scott  in 
describing  Scottish  life  and  society.  With  the  peace  of  1815 
arose  new  forms  of  fiction  and  travel,  which  became  very 
popular  when  the  close  of  the  war  with  Napoleon  opened  the 
world  again  to  Englishmen,  and  gave  birth  to  the  tale  of  For- 
eign scenery  and  manners.  Thomas  Hope's  Anastasius, 
1819,  was  the  first.  Lockhart  began  the  Classical  novel  in 
Valerius.  Fashionable  society- was  now  painted  by  Theodore 
Hook,  Mrs.  Trollope,  and  Mrs.  Gore;  and  Eural  life  by 
Miss  Mitford  in  Our  Village. 

Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  1805-1873,  began  with  the 
Fashionable  novel  in  Pelham,  1827,  and  followed  it  with  a 
long  succession  of  tales  on  historical,  classical,  and  romantic 
subjects.  Towards  the  close  of  his  life,  he  changed  his  man- 
ner altogether,  and  The  Caxtons  and  those  that  followed  are 
novels  of  Modern  Society.  The  tone  of  them  all  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  is  too  high-pitched  for  real  life,  but  each 
of  them,  being  kept  in  the  same  key  throughout,  has  a  reality 
of  its  own. 

Charlotte  Brokte,  1816-1855,  revived  in  Jane  Eyre  the 
novel  of  Passion,  and  Miss  Yonge  set  on  foot  the  Eeligious 
novel  in  support  of  a  special  school  of  theology.  We  need 
only  mention  Captain  Marryatt,  whose  delightful  sea  stories 
carry  on  the  seamen  of  Smollett  to  our  own  times.  Miss 
Martineau  and  Mr,  Disraeli  continued  the  novel  of  Political 


278       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


opinion  and  economy,  and  Oliaiies  Kingsley  applied  the  novel 
to  the  social  and  theological  problems  of  our  own  day.  Three 
other  great  names  are  too  close  to  us  to  admit  of  comment — 
Ohaeles  Dickens,  1812-1870,  William  M.  Thackeray, 
1811-1863,  and  the  novelist  who  is  known  as  Geoege  Eliot. 
It  will  be  seen  then  that  the  Novel  claims  almost  every  sphere 
of  human  interest  as  its  own,  and  it  has  this  special  character, 
that  it  is  the  only  kind  of  literature  in  which  women  have 
done  excellently. 

History. — W.  Mitford's  History  of  Greece,  completed  in 
1810,  is  made  untrue  by  his  hatred  of  a  democracy;  and  Dr. 
LinGard's  excellent  History  of  £Jngla7id,  1819,  is  influenced 
by  his  dislike  of  the  Reformation.  Hei^^ry  Hallam,  1778- 
1859,  was  the  first  who  wrote  history  in  this  country  with  so 
careful  a  love  of  truth  and  with  so  accurate  a  judgment  of 
the  relative  value  of  facts  and  things  that  prejudice  was  ex- 
cluded. His  Uuvope  during  the  Middle  Ages,  1818,  and  his 
Literatiore  of  Europe,  1837-8,.  are  distinguished  for  their  ex- 
haustive and  judicial  summing  up  of  facts;  and  his  Constitu- 
tional History  of  England,  1827,  set  on  foot  a  new  kind  of 
history  in  the  best  way. 

Our  own  history  now  engaged  a  number  of  writers.  The 
great  work  of  Lord  Mac  aula  y,  1800-1859,  told  the  story  of 
the  Revolution  of  1688  in  a  style  sometimes  too  emphatic, 
often  monotonous  from  its  mannerism,  but  always  clear.  Its 
vivid  word-painting  of  characters  and  great  events,  and  the 
splendid  use,  in  such  descriptions,  of  his  vast  knowledge  of 
details,  gave  as  great  an  impulse  to  the  literature  of  history 
as  Gibbon  had  done  in  his  day,  and  his  Historical  Essays  on 
the  times  and  statesmen  between  the  Restoration  and  Pitt  are 
masterpieces  of  their  kind. 

Sir  FRAivrcis  Palgraye  gave  interest  to  the  study  of  the 
early  English  period,  and  in  our  own  day  a  critical  English 
history  school  has  arisen,  of  which  Mr.  Freeman  and  Pro- 
fessor Stubbs  are  the  leaders. 


Prose — History^  Biography^  and  Theology.    279 

As  the  interest  in  the  history  of  our  own  land  increased, 
our  interest  in  the  history  of  the  world  increased.  Deak^ 
Milmak's  History  of  Latin  Christianity  well  deserves,  by 
its  brilliant  and  romantic  style,  the  title  of  fine  literature. 
Greece  old  and  new  found  her  best  historians  in  Bishop  Thirl- 
wall,  George  Grote,  and  Mr.  Finlay;  Rome  in  Dr.  Arnold. 
The  history  of  events  near  at  hand  on  the  Continent  was  also 
taken  up  with  care.  Among  the  books  of  this  class,  I  men- 
tion, for  their  special  literary  character  and  style,  Sir  Wil- 
liam Napier's  History  of  the  Peninsular  War,  and  Thomas 
Oarlyle's  History  of  the  French  Revolution,  Both  are  writ- 
ten in  too  poetic  prose,  and  the  latter  is  a  kind  of  epic,  and  is 
full  of  his  realistic,  fantastic,  and  unequal  power  of  represent- 
ing persons  and  things. 

BlOGEAPHY. — Since  Boswell  a  multitude  of  biographies  have 
poured  from  the  press,  and  have  formed  useful  materials  for 
history.  Few  of  them  have  reached  literary  excellence. 
Southey's  Life  of  Nelson,  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott,  Moore's 
Life  of  Lord  Byron;  or  in  our  own  days,  Forster's  Life  of 
Goldsmith,  and  Dean^  Stanley's  Life  of  Arnold  rise  out  of 
a  crowd  of  inferior  books. 

Theological  Literature  received  a  new  impulse  in  1738-91 
from  the  evangelizing  work  of  John  Wesley  and  Whitfield; 
and  their  spiritual  followers,  John  Scott,  Newton,  and  Cecil 
made  by  their  writings  the  Evangelical  school.  William 
Paley,  in  his  Evidences,  and  Sidney  Smith,  well  known  as  a 
wit  and  an  essayist,  defended  Christianity  from  the  common- 
sense  point  of  view;  while  the  sermons  of  Eobert  Hall  and  of 
Dr.  Chalmers  are,  in  different  ways,  fine  examples  of  devo- 
tional and  philosophical  eloquence. 

The  decay  of  the  Evangelical  school  was  hastened  by  the 
writings  of  Coleridge,  1772-1834,  whose  religious  philoso- 
phy, in  the  Aids  to  Reflection  and  other  books,  created  the 
school  which  has  been  called  the  Broad  Church.  Dr.  Arnold's 
sermons  supplied  it  with  an  element  of  masculine  good  sense. 


280       Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


Frederick  Maurice  in  his  numerous  works  added  to  it  mystical 
piety  and  one-sided  learning,  Charles  Kingsley  a  rough  and 
ready  power,  and  Frederick  Robertson  gave  it  passion,  senti- 
ment, subtilty,  and  a  fine  form.  At  the  same  time  that 
Maurice  began  to  write,  1830-32,  the  common-sense  school 
of  theology 'was  continued  by  Archbishop  Whately's  works; 
and,  in  strong  reaction  against  the  Evangelicals,  the  High 
Church  party  rose  into  prominence  in  Oxford,  and  was  chiefly 
supported  by  the  tracts  and  sermons  of  John  Henry  New- 
MAK,  born  in  1801,  whose  work,  with  Keble's  Christian  Year, 
a  collection  of  exquisitely  wrought  hymns,  belongs  to  literature. 
The  Methodist  movement  gave  the  first  impulse  to  popular 
education,  and  stirred  men  to  take  interest  in  the  cause  of  the 
poor.  This  new  philanthropy,  stirred  still  more  by  the  theo- 
ries of  the  French  Revolution  concerning  the  right  of  men  to 
freedom  and  equality,  took  up  the  subjects  of  slavery,  of 
prison  reform,  of  the  emancipation  of  the  Catholics,  and  of  a 
wider  representation  of  the  people,  and  their  literature  fills  a 
large  space  till  1832,  when  Reform  brought  forward  new  sub- 
jects, and  the  old  subjects  under  new  forms." 

Bibliography.  Bronte.— Mrs.  Gaskell's  Life  of;  P.  Bayne''s  Essays;  Black.  Mag., 
V.  82,  1857;  Eraser's  Mag.,  v.  55,  1857;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v.  85, 1857;  West.  Rev.,  v.  59,  1853; 
Eel.  Mag.,  July,  1855,  and  Feb.,  1878. 

Dickens. — Forster's  Life  of;  Whipple's  Lectures  on  Lit.  and  Life  and  Success 
and  its  Conditions;  Timbs'  Lives  of  the  Later  Wits;  Field's  Yesterdays  ivith  Au- 
thors; R.  H.  Home's  New  Spirit  of  the  Age;  Black.  Mag.,  v.  77,1855;  81, 1857;  and 
109, 1871 ;  Contem.  Rev.,  v.  10, 1869;  Fort.  Rev.,  v.  17, 1872;  Nat.  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  1, 1860; 
West.  Rev.,  v.  82.  1864. 

Thackeray  —Eng.  Men  of  Let.  Series;  P.  Bayne's  Essays;  J  Hannay's  Studies 
on  Thack. ;  G-  Brimley's  Essays;  J.  Brown's  Spare  Hours,  2d  Ser. ;  Taine's  Hist. 
Eng.  Lit.;  At.  Montli.,v.  13, 1864;  Black.  Mag.,  v.  77, 1855,  and  111,  1872:  Ed.  Rev.,Jan., 
1873;  Fraser's  Mag.,  v.  46,  1852;  47,  1853;  and  69,  1864;  Harper's  Mo.,  vs.  28,  41,  and 
49;  Macnaillan,  Feb.,  1864;  Nat.  Rev.,  v.  18,  1864;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v.  77,  1853;  N.  Br. 
Rev.,  V.  24, 1855;  v.  40,  1864;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  97, 1855;  West.  Rev.,  v.  59,  1853;  74,  1860; 
and  82,  1864. 

George  Eliot  (Mrs.  Lewes).— Black.  Mag.,  vs.  85,  87,  100,  103,  and  112;  Ed.  Rev., 
vs.  110, 124,  and  128;  West.  Rev.,  vs.  74,  86,  and  90;  Contem.  Rev.,  vs.  3,  8,  and  20;  N. 
Br.  Rev.,v.  45;  Macmillan,  May,  1870;  Aug.  1866;  and  June,  1877;  Fraser's  Mag., 
V.  78;  At.  Mo.,  vs.  18  and  38;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v.  107;  Br.  Quar.  Rev.,  Apr.,  1873,  and  Oct., 
1876;  Scrib.  Mo.,  v.  8:  Fort.  Rev..  Nov.,  1876;  Eel.  Mag.,  March  and  April,  1881. 

Macaulay.— Trevelyan's  Life   and    Letters  of;    Bagehot's  Estimates,   etc.;   P. 


Prose — Thackeray^  s.  281 

Bayne's  Essays  ;  Minto's  Man.  Eng.  Pr.  Lit.;  J.  H.  Sterling's  Crit.  Essays  ;  \^  hip- 
pie's Essays  ;  Maddyn's  Chiefs  of  Parties  ;  Black.  Mag.,  v.  80,  1856  ;  Littell.  vs.  1,  2, 
and  4,  1860,  and  4,  1870  ;  Fraser's  Mag.,  v.  56,  1857 ;  Macmillan,  Feb.,  1860  ;  N.  Br. 
Rev.,  V.  27,  1857,  and  33,  1860  ;  Eel.  Mag.,  Feb.,  1862. 

Lesson  52. 

Thackeray. — "In  painting,  however  mechanical,  the  painter's  mind 
finds  always  some  expression.  In  pliotograpJiy  it  is  diflEicult  for  the  most 
accomplished  artist  to  put  into  his  mirror  any  trace  of  individual  genius. 
Perfect  and  admirable  as  a  photograph  seems,  it  is  a  cold  and  lifeless 
image  of  what,  in  the  reality,  was  animated  with  the  breath  of  God. 

We  find  this  photographic  quality  in  Thackeray's  early  writings. 
There  seems  to  be  no  sympathy  between  the  wiiter  and  his  characters. 
They  are,  as  it  were,  on  the  further  side  of  the  glass  he  holds  to  them. 
He  scrutinizes  them  with  an  anatomical  microscope ;  he  submits  them 
calmly  to  vivisection.  This  attitude  of  mind  gives  a  peculiar  tone  to  his 
productions.  Even  in  his  later  works  we  think  Mr.  Thackeray  has  been 
over-influenced  by  this  negative  element.  In  Pendennis  it  is  the  lesson 
embodied  in  the  hero.  The  Colonel  of  the  JVeiccomes,  of  all  Thackeray's 
creations  the  noblest  and  most  gracious,  is  sacrificed  to  his  daughter-in- 
law  by  a  certain  odious  and  improbable  identification  in  the  displays  of 
her  folly  and  pettiness. 

Thus  it  is  natural  that  a  peculiar  ironical  sadness,  a  negative  element, 
should  rarely  be  unfelt  in  the  pages  of  this  great  writer.  The  sense  of 
the  irony  of  things  suggests  a  true  picture  of  the  world  so  nearly  like  the 
false  picture  which  might  be  drawn  by  the  satirist  that  we  must  not  be 
surprised  if  Mr.  Thackeray  has  more  than  occasionally  fallen  into  satire 
or  mockery.  A  tone  of  over-severity,  more  than  a  hint  of  irony  infect 
Esmond  and  the  Virginians,  are  painfully  prominent  in  Vanity  Fair  and 
and  in  Pendennis.  It  is  true  that  Thackeray's  admirable  humor,  a  qual- 
ity of  his  so  well-known  and  appreciated  that  an  allusion  to  it  will  be 
enough,  springs  from  the  contrasts  of  life  which  this  irony  affords  him, 
and  is  his  justification  for  recurrence  to  it.  It  is  equally  true  that  a 
hundred  examples  may  be  produced,  displaying  the  sweet  and  noble 
nature,  the  scorn  of  baseness,  and  the  '  love  of  love '  which  in  reality 
underlie  the  sneer  and  the  smartness,  yet  these  naturally  tell  on  readers 
with  the  greater  vividness. 

We  cannot  sum  up  this  criticism  better  than  by  suggesting  a  contrast 
to  the  reader.  Compare  the  tone  of  mind  impressed  on  us  by  the  writ- 
ings of  that  great-hearted  man  to  whose  honors  as  laureate  of  living 
novelists  Mr.  Thackeray  has  unquestionably  succeeded.  Scott's  Bride 
of  Lammermoor  certainly  contains  not  less  than  Pendennis  of  the  mean 


282       Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


ness  of  man  and  the  coldness  of  woman.  Each  has  the  same  defect — 
want  of  depth  in  passionate  delineation.  Each  is  deficient  in  what  it  is 
fashionable  to  call  '  a  high  view  of  life.'  Each,  again,  presents  a  drama 
of  human  existence  with  magnificent  power.  Yet,  in  final  impression, 
the  difference  we  feel  is  wider  than  the  difference  between  the  atmos- 
phere of  a  theatre  and  the  atmosphere  of  fresh-water;  of  a  ball  supper- 
room  and  of  the  '  incorruptible  sea.'  We  close  the  Bride  of  Lammer- 
moor  with  a  sense  of  healthy  pain  and  healthy  pleasure;  Pendemm\\\W\ 
a  vanitas  vaiiiiatum." — George  Eliot. 

From  Thackeray's  Newcomes. 

A  crow,  who  had  flown  away  with  a  cheese  from  a  dairy  window,  sat 
perched  on  a  tree,  looking  down  at  a  great,  big  frog  in  a  pool  under- 
neath him.  The  frog's  hideous,  large  eyes  were  goggling  out  of  his 
head  in  a  manner  which  appeared  quite  ridiculous  to  the  old  black-a- 
moor,  who  watched  the  splay-footed,  slimy  wretch  with  that  peculiar 
grim  humor  belonging  to  crows.  Not  far  from  the  frog  a  fat  ox  was 
browsing;  while  a  few  lanibs  frisked  about  the  meadow,  or  nibbled  the 
grass  and  buttercups  there. 

Who  should  come  into  the  farther  end  of  the  field  but  a  wolf?  He 
was  so  cunningly  dressed  up  in  sheep's  clothing  that  the  very  lambs  did 
not  know  master  wolf;  nay,  one  of  them,  whose  dam  the  wolf  had  just 
eaten,  after  which  he  had  thrown  her  skin  over  his  shoulders,  ran  up  in- 
nocently toward  the  devouring  monster,  mistaking  him  for  mamma. 

"He-he!"  says  a  fox,  sneaking  round  the  hedge-paling,  over  which 
the  tree  grew  whereupon  the  crow  was  perched,  looking  down  on  the 
frog  who  was  staring  with  his  goggle  eyes  fit  to  burst  with  envy,  and 
croaking  abuse  at  the  ox.  "  How  absurd  those  lambs  are!  Yonder  silly, 
little,  knock-kneed,  baah-ling  does  not  know  the  old  wolf  dressed  in  the 
sheep's  fleece.  He  is  the  same  old  rogue  who  gobbled  up  little  Red 
Riding  Hood's  grandmother  for  lunch,  and  swallowed  little  Red  Riding 
Hood  for  supper.     He-he!" 

An  owl,  that  was  hidden  in  the  hollow  of  the  tree,  woke  up.  "  O  ho, 
master  fox,"  says  she,  "  I  cannot  see  you,  but  I  smell  you!  If  some 
folks  like  lambs,  other  folks  like  geese,"  says  the  owl. 

"And  yonr  ladyship  is  fond  of  mice,"  says  the  fox. 

"The  Chinese  eat  them,"  says  the  owl,  "  and  I  have  read  that  they 
are  very  fond  of  dogs,"  continued  the  old  lady. 

"  I  wish  they  would  exterminate  every  cur  of  them  off  the  face  of  the 
earth,"  said  the  fox. 

"  And  I  have  also  read  in  works  of  travel  that  the  French  eat  frogs," 
continued  the  owl.  "Aha,  my  friend  Crapaud!  are  you  there?  That 
was  a  very  pretty  concert  we  sang  together  last  night!" 


Prose—  Thackeray's.  283 

"If  the  French  devour  my  brethren,  the  English  eat  beef,"  croaked 
out  the  frog — "  great,  big,  brutal,  bellowing  oxen!" 

"Ho,  whoo!"  says  the  owl,  "I  have  heard  that  the  English  are  toad- 
eaters,  too!" 

"But  who  ever  heard  of  them  eating  an  owl  or  a  fox,  madam?"  says 
Reynard,  "  or  their  sitting  down  and  taking  a  crow  to  pick,"  adds  the 
polite  rogue,  with  a  bow  to  the  old  crow,  who  was  perched  above  them 
with  the  cheese  in  his  mouth.  "  We  are  privileged  animals,  all  of  us; 
at  least,  we  never  furnish  dishes  for  the  odious  orgies  of  man." 

"I  am  the  bird  of  wisdom,"  says  the  owl;  "I  was  the  companion  of 
Pallas  Minerva;  I  am  frequently  represented  in  the  Egyptian  monu- 
ments." 

"I  have  seen  you  over  the  British  barn-doors,"  said  the  fox,  with  a 
grin.  "  You  have  a  deal  of  scholarship,  Mrs.  Owl.  I  know  a  thing  or 
two  myself;  but  am,  I  confess  it,  no  scholar — a  mere  man  of  the  world 
— a  fellow  that  lives  by  his  wits — a  mere  country  gentleman." 

"  You  sneer  at  scholarship,"  continues  the  owl,  with  a  sneer  on  her 
venerable  face.     "  I  read  a  good  deal  of  a  night." 

"  When  I  am  engaged  deciphering  the  cocks  and  hens  at  roost,"  says 
the  fox. 

"  It's  a  pity  for  all  that  you  can't  read;  that  board  nailed  over  my 
head  would  give  you  some  information. " 

"What  does  it  say?"  says  the  fox. 

"I  can't  spell  in  the  daylight,"  answered  the  owl;  and,  giving  a  yawn, 
went  back  to  sleep  till  evening  in  the  hollow^  of  her  tree. 

"A  fig  for  her  hieroglyphics!"  said  the  fox,  looking  up  at  the  crow  in 
the  tree.  "What  airs  .our  slow  neighbor  gives  herself!  She  pretends 
to  all  the  wisdom;  whereas,  your  reverences,  the  crows,  are  endowed 
with  gifts  far  superior  to  those  benighted  old  big-wigs  of  owls,  who 
blink  in  the  darkness  and  call  their  hooting  singing.  How  noble  it  is  to 
hear  a  chorus  of  crows !  There  are  twenty- four  brethren  of  the  Order 
of  St.  Corvinus  who  have  builded  themselves  a  convent  near  a  wood 
which  I  frequent;  what  a  droning  and  a  chanting  they  keep  up!  I  pro- 
test their  reverences' singing  is  nothing  to  yours!  You  sing  so  deli- 
ciously  in  parts,  do  for  the  love  of  harmony  favor  me  with  a  solo!" 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  the  ox  was  champing  the  grass; 
the  frog  was  eying  him  in  such  a  rage  at  his  superior  proportions  that 
he  would  have  spurted  venom  at  him  if  he  could,  and  that  he  would 
have  burst,  only  that  is  impossible,  from  sheer  envy:  the  little  lambkin 
was  lying  unsuspiciously  at  the  side  of  the  wolf  in  fleecy  hosiery,  who 
did  not  as  yet  molest  her,  being  replenished  with  the  mutton,  her  mam- 


284       Literature  of  Period  VII L,  1789  . 

ma.  But  now  the  wolf's  eyes  began  to  glare  and  his  sharp,  white  teeth 
to  show,  and  he  rose  up  with  a  growl,  and  began  to  th  ink  he  should  like 
lamb  for  supper. 

"  What  large  eyes  you  have  got!"  bleated  out  the  lamb,  with  rather  a 
timid  look. 

"  The  better  to  see  you  with,  my  dear." 

"What  large  teeth  you  have  got!" 

"The better  to  — " 

At  this  moment  such  a  terrific  yell  filled  the  field  that  all  its  inhab- 
itants started  with  terror.  It  was  from  a  donkey,  who  had  somehow  got 
a  lion's  skin,  and  now  came  in  at  the  hedge,  pursued  by  some  men  and 
boys  with  sticks  and  guns. 

When  the  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  heard  the  bellow  of  the  ass  in  the 
lion's  skm,  fancying  that  the  monarch  of  the  forest  was  near,  he  ran 
away  as  fast  as  his  disguise  would  let  him.  When  the  ox  heard  the 
noise,  he  dashdd  round  the  meadow-ditch,  and  with  one  trample  of  his 
hoof  squashed  the  frog  who  had  been  abusing  him.  When  the  crow 
saw  the  people  with  guns  coming,  he  instantly  dropped  the  cheese  out 
of  his  mouth,  and  took  to  wing.  When  the  fox  saw  the  cheese  drop, 
he  immediately  made  a  jump  at  it  (for  he  knew  the  donkey's  voice,  and 
that  his  asinine  bray  was  not  a  bit  like  his  royal  master's  roar),  and, 
making  for  the  cheese,  fell  into  a  steel-trap,  which  snapped  off  his  tail ; 
without  which  he  was  obliged  to  go  into  the  world,  pretending,  forsooth, 
that  it  was  the  fashion  not  to  wear  tails  any  more,  and  that  the  fox-party 
were  better  without  'em. 

Meanwhile,  a  boy  with  a  stick  came  up,  and  belabored  master  donkey 
until  he  roared  louder  than  ever.  The  wolf,  with  the  sheep's  clothing 
draggling  about  his  legs,  could  not  run  fast,  and  was  detected  and  shot 
by  one  of  the  men.  The  blind  old  owl,  whirring  out  of  the  hollow 
tree,  quite  amazed  at  the  disturbance,  flounced  into  the  face  of  a  plow- 
boy,  who  knocked  her  down  with  a  pitchfork.  The  butcher  came  and 
quietly  led  off  the  ox  and  the  lamb;  and  the  farmer,  finding  the  fox's 
brush  in  the  trap,  hung  it  over  his  mantel-piece  and  always  bragged 
that  he  had  been  in  at  his  death. 

"What  a  farrago  of  old  fables  is  this!  What  a  dressing  up  in  old 
clothes!"  says  the  critic.  (I  think  I  see  such  a  one— a  Solomon  that  sits 
in  judgment  over  us  authors,  and  chops  up  our  children.)  "  As  sure  as  I 
am  just  and  wise,  modest,  learned,  and  religious,  so  surely  I  have  read 
something  very  like  this  stuff  and  nonsense  about  jackasses  and  foxes 
before.  That  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing! — do  I  not  know  him?  That  fox 
discoursing  with  the  crow! — have  I  not  previously  heard  of  him?    Yes, 


Prose — Thackeray's.  285 


in  Lafontaine's  fables.  Let  us  get  the  Dictionary  and  the  Fable  and  the 
Biographic  Universelle,  article  Lafontaine,  and  confound  the  impostor." 

"  Then  in  what  a  contemptuous  way,"  may  Solomon  go  on  to  remark, 
"does  this  author  speak  of  human  nature!  There  is  scarce  one  of  these 
characters  he  represents  but  is  a  villain.  The  fox  is  a  flatterer;  the  frog 
is  an  emblem  of  impotence  and  envy;  the  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  a 
bloodthirsty  hypocrite,  wearing  the  garb  of  innocence;  the  ass  in  the 
lion's  skin  a  quack  trying  to  terrify  by  assuming  the  appearance  of  a 
forest  monarch;  the  ox  a  stupid  common-place;  the  only  innocent  being 
in  the  writer's  (stolen)  apologue  is  a  fool — the  idiotic  lamb,  who  does 
not  know  his  own  mother. "  And  then  the  critic,  if  in  a  virtuous  mood, 
may  indulge  in  some  fine  writing  regarding  the  holy  beauteousness  of 
maternal  affection. 

Why  not?  If  authors  sneer,  it  is  the  critic's  business  to  sneer  at  them 
for  sneering.  He  must  pretend  to  be  their  superior,  or  who  would  care 
about  his  opinion?  And  his  livelihood  is  to  find  fault.  Besides,  he  is 
right  sometimes;  and  the  stories  he  reads,  and  the  characters  drawn  in 
them  are  old,  sure  enough.  What  stories  are  new?  All  types  of  all 
characters  march  through  all  fables :  tremblers  and  boasters ;  victims  and 
bullies;  dupes  and  knaves ;  long- eared  Neddies,  giving  themselves  leo- 
nine airs;  Tartuffes,  wearing  virtuous  clothing;  lovers  and  their  trials, 
their  blindness,  their  folly  and  constancy.  With  the  very  first  page  of 
the  human  story  do  not  love  and  lies,  too,  begin?  So  the  tales  were  told 
ages  before  JEsop :  and  asses  under  lions'  manes  roared  in  Hebrew ;  and 
sly  foxes  flattered  in  Etruscan ;  and  wolves  in  sheep's  clothing  gnashed 
their  teeth  in  Sanscrit,  no  doubt.  The  sun  shines  to-day  as  he  did  when  he 
first  began  shining;  and  the  birds  in  the  tree  overhead,  while  I  am  writ- 
ing, sing  very  much  the  same  note  they  have  sung  ever  since  they  were 
finches.  Nay,  since  last  he  besought  good-natured  friends  to  listen  once 
a  month  to  his  talking,  a  friend  of  the  writer  has  seen  the  New  World, 
and  found  the  (featherless)  birds  there  exceedingly  like  their  brethren  of 
Europe,  There  may  be  nothing  new  under  and  including  the  sun;  but 
it  looks  fresh  every  morning,  and  w^e  rise  with  it  to  toil,  hope,  scheme, 
laugh,  struggle,  love,  suffer,  until  the  night  comes  and  quiet.  And  then 
will  wake  Morrow,  and  the  eyes  that  look  on  it. 

This,  then,  is  to  be  a  story,  may  it  please  you,  in  which  jackdaw^s  will 
wear  peacock's  feathers,  and  awaken  the  just  ridicule"  of  the  peacocks ;  in 
which,  while  every  justice  is  done  to  the  peacocks  themselves,  the  splen- 
dor of  their  plumage,  the  gorgeousness  of  their  dazzling  necks,  and  the 
magnificence  of  their  tails,  exception  will  yet  be  taken  to  the  absurdity 
of  their  rickety  stmt,  and  the  foolish  discord  of  their  pert  squeaking; 


286      Literature  of  Period   VIIL,  1789 


in  which  lions  in  love  will  have  their  claws  pared  by  sly  virgins ;  in 
which  rogues  will  sometimes  triumph,  and  honest  folks,  let  us  hope, 
come  by  their  own;  in  which  there  will  be  black  crape  and  white  favors; 
in  wiiich  there  will  be  tears  under  orange-flower  wreaths  and  jokes  in 
mourning-coaches;  in  which  there  will  be  dinners  of  herbs  with  con- 
tentment and  without;  and  banquets  of  stalled  oxen  where  there  is  care 
and  hatred — ay,  and  kindness  and  friendship,  too,  along  with  the  feast. 
It  does  not  follow  that  ail  men  are  honest  because  they  are  poor;  and  I 
have  known  some  who  were  friendly  and  generous,  although  they  had 
plenty  of  money.  There  are  some  greatlandlords  who  do  not  grind  down 
their  tenants ;  there  are  actually  bishops  who  are  not  hypocrites ;  there 
are  liberal  men  even  among  the  Whigs,  and  the  Radicals  themselves  are 
not  all  Aristocrats  at  heart. 

But  who  ever  heard  of  giving  the  moral  before  the  Fable?  Children 
are  only  led  to  accept  the  one  after  their  delectation  over  the  other :  let 
us  take  care  lest  our  readers  skip  both ;  and  so  let  us  bring  them  on  quickly 
— our  wolves  and  lambs,  our  foxes  and  lions,  our  roaring  donkeys,  our 
billing  ring-doves,  our  motherly  partlets,  and  crowing  chanticleers. 

Macaulay. — "There  is  little  to  notice  in  Macaulay's  vocabulary  ex- 
cept its  copiousness.  He  has  no  eccentricities  like  De  Quincey  or 
Carlyle;  he  employs  neither  slang  nor  scholastic  technicalities,  and  he 
never  couis  a  new  word.  He  cannot  be  said  to  use  an  excess  of  Latin 
words,  and  he  is  not  a  purist  m  the  matter  of  Saxon.  His  command  of 
expression  was  proportioned  to  the  extraordinary  compass  of  his  memory. 
The  copiousness  appears  not  so  much  in  the  Shakespearian  form  of 
accumulating  synonyms  one  upon  another  as  in  a  profuse  way  of  re- 
peating a  thought  m  several  different  sentences.  This  is  especially 
noticeable  in  the  opening  passages  of  some  of  his  essays. 

Macaulay's  is  a  style  that  may  truly  be  called  '  artificial '  from  his  ex- 
cessive use  of  striking  artifices  of  style— balanced  sentences,  abrupt 
transitions,  and  pointed  figures  of  speech.  The  peculiarities  of  the 
mechanism  of  his  style  are  expressed  in  such  general  terms  as  'abrupt,' 
'  pointed,'  '  oratorical.'  His  sentences  have  the  compact  finish  produced 
by  the  frequent  occurrence  of  the  periodic  arrangement.  He  is  not  uni- 
formly periodic;  he  often  prefers  a  loose  structure,  and  he  very  rarely 
has  recourse  to  the  forced  inversions  that  we  find  occasionally  in  De 
Quincey.  Yet  there  is  a  sufficient  interspersion  of  periodic  arrangements 
to  produce  an  impression  of  firmness. 

We  may  notice  incidentally  his  lavish  use  of  antithesis.  The  con- 
trasts are  really  more  numerous  than  might  be  thought  at  first  glance ; 
the  bare  framework  is  so  overlaid  and  disguised  by  the  extraordinary 


Prose — Macaulay'  s.  287 

fulness  of  expression  that  many  of  them  escape  notice.  When  we  look 
narrowly,  we  see  that  there  is  a  constant  play  of  antithesis.  Not  only  is 
word  set  over  against  word,  clause  against  clause,  and  sentence  against 
sentence ;  there  are  contrasts  on  a  more  extensive  scale.  One  group  of 
sentences  answers  to  another,  and  paragraphs  are  balanced  against  para- 
graphs. His  pages  are  illuminated  not  only  by  little  sparks  of  antithesis 
but  by  broad  flashes. 

A  rhetorician  of  so  decided  a  turn  as  Macaulay  could  not  fail  to  use 
the  rhetorician's  greatest  art — the  climax.  In  every  paragraph  that  rises 
above  the  ordinary  level  of  feeling,  we  are  conscious  of  being  led  on  to 
a  crowning  derjionstration. 

Macaulay's  composition  is  as  far  from  being  abstruse  as  printed  mat- 
ter can  well  be.  One  can  trace  in  his  writing  a  constant  effort  to  make 
himself  mtelligible  to  the  meanest  capacity.  He  loves  to  dazzle  and  to 
argue,  but  above  everything  else  he  is  anxious  to  be  understood.  His 
ideal  evidently  is  to  turn  a  subject  over  on  every  side,  to  place  it  in  all 
lights,  and  to  address  himself  to  every  variety  of  prejudice  and  preoccu- 
pation in  his  audience." —  William  Minto. 

From  Macaulay's  Essay  on  Warren  Hastings. 

Burke's  knowledge  of  India  was  such  as  few,  even  of  those  Europeans 
who  have  passed  many  years  in  that  country,  have  attained,  and  such  as 
certainly  was  never  attained  by  any  other  public  man  who  had  not 
quitted  Europe.  He  had  studied  the  history,  the  laws,  and  the  usages 
of  the  East  with  an  industry  such  as  is  seldom  found  united  to  so  much 
genius  and  so  much  sensibility.  Others  have,  perhaps,  been  equally 
laborious,  and  have  collected  an  equal  mass  of  materials.  But  the  man- 
ner in  which  Burke  brought  his  higher  powers  of  intellect  to  work  on 
statements  of  facts,  and  on  tables  of  figures,  was  peculiar  to  himself. 
In  every  part  of  those  huge  bales  of  Indian  information,  which  repelled 
almost  all  other  readers,  his  mind,  at  once  philosophical  and  poetical, 
found  something  to  instruct  or  to  delight.  His  reason  analyzed  and  di- 
gested those  vast  and  shapeless  masses;  his  imagination  animated  and 
colored  them. 

Out  of  darkness  and  dulness  and  confusion,  he  formed  a  multitude  of 
ingenious  theories  and  vivid  pictures.  He  had,  in  the  highest  degree, 
that  noble  faculty  whereby  man  is  able  to  live  in  the  past  and  in  the 
future,  in  the  distant  and  m  the  unreal.  India  and  its  inhabitants  were 
not  to  him,  as  to  most  Englishmen,  mere  names  and  abstractions,  but  a  real 
country  and  a  real  people.  The  burning  sun,  the  strange  vegetation  of 
the  palm  and  the  cocoa  tree,  the  rice-field,  the  tank,  the  huge  trees,  older 


288       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


than  the  Mogul  Empire,  under  which  the  village  crowds  assemble,  the 
thatched  roof  of  the  peasant's  hut,  the  rich  tracery  of  the  mosque  where 
the  imaum  prays  with  his  face  to  Mecca,  the  drums  and  banners  and 
gaudy  idols,  the  devotee  swinging  in  the  air,  the  graceful  maiden,  with 
the  pitcher  on  her  head,  descending  the  steps  to  the  river  side,  the  black 
faces,  the  long  beards,  the  yellow  streaks  of  sect,  the  turbans  and  the 
flowing  robes,  the  spears  and  the  silver  maces,  the  elephants  with  their 
canopies  of  state,  the  gorgeous  palanquin  of  the  prince,  and  the  close 
litter  of  the  noble  lady, — all  these  things  were  to  him  as  the  objects 
amidst  which  Iiis  own  life  had  been  passed,  as  the  objects  which  lay  on 
the  road  between  Beaconsfield  and  St.  James  Street. 

All  India  was  present  to  the  eye  of  his  mind,  from  the  halls  where 
suitors  laid  gold  and  perfumes  at  the  feet  of  sovereigns  to  the  wild  moor 
where  the  gipsy  camp  was  pitched,  from  the  bazar,  humming  like  a  bee- 
hive with  the  crowd  of  buyers  and  sellers,  to  the  jungle  where  the  lonely 
courier  shakes  his  bunch  of  iron  rings  to  scare  away  the  hyaenas.  He 
had  just  as  lively  an  idea  of  the  insurrection  at  Benares  as  of  Lord 
George  Gordon's  riots,  and  of  the  execution  of  Nuncomar  as  of  the  exe- 
cution of  Dr.  Dodd. 

From  Macaulay's  History. 
The  Pontificate,  exposed  to  new  dangers  more  formidable  than  had 
ever  before  threatened  it,  was  saved  by  a  new  religious  order,  which 
was  animated  by  intense  enthusiasm  and  organised  with  exquisite  skill. 
When  the  Jesuits  came  to  the  rescue,  they  found  the  Papacy  in  extreme 
peril;  but  from  that  moment  the  tide  of  battle  turned.  Protestantism, 
which  had,  during  a  whole  generation,  carried  all  before  it,  was  stopped 
in  its  progress,  and  rapidly  beaten  back  from  the  foot  of  the  Alps  to  the 
shores  of  the  Baltic.  Before  the  Order  had  existed  a  hundred  years,  it 
had  filled  the  whole  world  with  memorials  of  great  things  done  and  suf- 
fered for  the  faith.  No  other  religious  community  could  produce  a  list 
of  men  so  variously  distinguished;  none  had  extended  its  operations  over 
so  vast  a  space;  yet  in  none  had  there  ever  been  such  perfect  unity  of 
feeling  and  action.  There  was  no  region  of  the  globe,  no  walk  of  specu- 
lative or  of  active  life  in  which  Jesuits  were  not  to  be  found.  They 
guided  the  counsels  of  kings.  They  deciphered  Latin  inscriptions. 
They  observed  the  motions  of  Jupiter's  satellites.  They  published 
whole  libraries,  controversy,  casuistry,  history,  treatises  on  optics,  Alcaic 
odes,  editions  of  the  fathers,  madrigals,  catechisms,  and  lampoons.  The 
liberal  education  of  youth  passed  almost  entirely  into  their  hands,  and 
was  conducted  by  them  with  conspicuous  ability.     They  appeared  to 


Prose — Macaulay's,  289 

have  discovered  the  precise  point  to  wliich  intellectual  culture  can  be 
carried  without  risk  of  intellectual  emancipation.  Enmity  itself  was 
compelled  to  own  that,  in  the  art  of  managing  and  forming  the  tender 
mind,  they  had  no  equals. 

Meanwhile  they  assiduously  and  successfully  cultivated  the  eloquence 
of  the  pulpit.  With  still  greater  assiduity  and  still  greater  success  they 
applied  themselves  to  tlie  ministry  of  the  confessional.  Throughout 
Roman  Catholic  Europe  the  secrets  of  every  government  and  of  almost 
every  family  of  note  were  in  their  keeping.  They  glided  from  one  Pro- 
testant country  to  another  under  innumerable  disguises,  as  gay  cavaliers, 
as  simple  rustics,  as  Puritan  preachers.  They  wandered  to  countries 
which  neither  mercantile  avidity  nor  liberal  curiosity  had  ever  impelled 
any  stranger  to  explore.  They  were  to  be  found  in  the  garb  of  Manda- 
rins, superintending  the  observatory  at  Pekin.  They  were  to  be  found 
spade  in  hand,  teaching  the  rudiments  of  agriculture  to  the  savages  of 
Paraguay. 

Yet,  whatever  might  be  their  residence,  whatever  might  be  their  em- 
ployment, their  spirit  was  the  same,  entire  devotion  to  the  common 
cause,  unreasoning  obedience  t;o  the  central  authority.  None  of  them 
had  chosen  his  dwelling-place  or  his  vocation  for  himself.  Whether 
the  Jesuit  should  live  under  the  arctic  circle  or  under  the  equator, 
whether  he  should  pass  his  life  in  arranging  gems  and  collating  manu- 
scripts at  the  Vatican  or  in  persuading  naked  barbarians  under  the  South- 
ern Cross  not  to  eat  each  other,  were  matters  which  he  left  with  pro- 
found submission  to  the  decision  of  others.  If  he  was  wanted  at  Lima, 
he  was  on  the  Atlantic  in  the  next  fleet.  If  he  was  wanted  at  Bagdad, 
he  was  toiling  through  the  desert  with  the  next  caravan.  If  his  ministry 
were  needed  in  some  country  where  his  life  was  more  insecure  than  that 
of  a  wolf,  where  it  was  a  crime  to  harbor  him,  where  the  heads  and 
quarters  of  his  brethren,  fixed  in  the  public  places,  showed  him  what  he 
had  to  expect,  he  went  without  remonstrance  or  hesitation  to  his  doom. 

Nor  is  this  heroic  spirit  yet  extinct.  When,  in  our  own  time,  a  new 
and  terrible  pestilence  passed  round  the  globe,  when,  in  some  great 
cities,  fear  had  dissolved  all  the  ties  which  hold  society  together, 
when  the  secular  clergy  had  forsaken  their  flocks,  when  medical  succor 
was  not  to  be  purchased  by  gold,  when  the  strongest  natural  affections 
had  yielded  to  the  love  of  life,  even  then  the  Jesuit  was  found  by  the 
pallet  which  bishop  and  curate,  physician  and  nurse,  father  and  mother, 
had  deserted,  bending  over  infected  lips  to  catch  the  faint  accents  of  con- 
fession, and  holding  up  to  the  last,  before  the  expiring  penitent,  the  image 
of  the  expiring  Kedeemer. 


:^00       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


From  Newman's  Grammar  of  Assent. 

Science  gives  us  the  grounds,  or  premises,  from  which  religious  truths 
are  to  be  enforced;  but  it  does  not  set  about  inferring  them,  much  less 
does  it  reach  the  inference — that  is  not  its  province.  It  brings  before 
us  plienomena,  and  it  leaves  us,  if  we  will,  to  call  them  works  of  design, 
wisdom,  or  benevolence;  and,  further  still,  if  we  will,  to  proceed  to  con- 
fess an  intelligent  Creator.  We  have  to  take  its  facts,  and  to  give  them  a 
meaning  and  to  draw  our  own  conclusions  from  them.  First  comes  knowl- 
edge, then  a  view,  then  reasoning,  and  then  belief.  This  is  why  science 
has  so  little  of  a  religious  tendency — deductions  have  no  power  of  per- 
suasion. Tlie  heart  is  commonly  reached,  not  through  the  reason,  but 
through  the  imagination,  by  means  of  direct  impressions,  by  the  testi- 
mony of  facts  and  events,  by  history,  by  description.  Persons  influence 
us,  voices  melt  us,  looks  subdue  us,  deeds  inflame  us. 

Many  a  man  will  live  and  die  upon  a  dogma;  no  man  will  beamart^^r 
for  a  conclusion.  A  conclusion  is  but  an  opinion;  it  is  not  a  thing 
which  is,  but  which  we  are  quite  sure  about;  and  it  has  often  been  ob- 
served that  we  never  say  we  are  sure  and  certain  without  implying 
that  we  doubt.  To  say  that  a  thing  must  be  is  to  admit  that  it  may  not 
be.  No  one,  I  say,  will  die  for  his  own  calculations;  he  dies  for  reali- 
ties. This  is  why  a  literary  religion  is  so  little  to  be  depended  upon.  It 
looks  well  in  fair  weather;  but  its  doctrines  are  opinions,  and,  when 
called  to  suffer  for  them,  it  slips  them  between  its  folios,  or  burns  them 
at  its  hearth.  And  this  again  is  the  secret  of  the  distrust  and  raillery 
with  which  moralists  have  been  so  commonly  visited.  They  say,  and 
do  not.  Why?  Because  they  are  contemplating  the  fitness  of  things, 
and  they  live  by  the  square  when  they  should  be  realizing  their  high 
maxims  in  the  concrete. 

I  have  no  confidence,  then,  in  philosophers  w^ho  cannot  help  being  re- 
ligious, and  are  Christians  by  implication.  They  sit  at  home,  and  reach 
forward  to  distances  which  astonish  us;  but  they  hit  without  grasping, 
and  are  sometimes  as  confident  about  shadows  as  about  realities.  They 
have  worked  out  by  a  calculation  the  lay  of  a  country  which  they  never 
saw,  and  mapped  it  by  means  of  a  gazetteer;  and,  like  blind  men, 
though  they  can  put  a  stranger  on  his  way,  the}''  cannot  walk  straight 
themselves,  and  do  not  feel  it  quite  their  business  to  walk  at  all. 

Logic  makes  but  a  sorry  rhetoric  with  the  multitude;  first  shoot  round 
corners,  and  you  may  not  despair  of  converting  by  a  syllogism.  Tell 
men  to  gain  notions  of  a  Creator  from  his  works,  and,  if  they  were  to  set 
about  it,  (which  nobody  does)  they  would  be  jaded  and  wearied  by  the 


Trose— George  Eliot's,  S91 


labyrinth  they  were  tracing.  Their  minds  would  be  gorged  and  sur 
feited  by  the  logical  operation.  Logicians  are  more  set  upon  conclud- 
ing rightly  than  on  right  conclusions.  They  cannot  see  the  end  for 
the  process.  Few  men  have  that  power  of  mind  which  may  hold  fast 
and  firmly  a  variety  of  thoughts.  We  ridicule  men  of  one  idea;  but  a 
great  many  of  us  are  born  to  be  such,  and  we  should  be  happier  if  we 
knew  it.  To  most  men  argument  makes  the  point  in  hand  only  more 
doubtful,  and  considerably  less  impressive. 

After  all,  man  is  not  a  reasoning  animal ;  he  is  a  seeing,  feeling,  con- 
templating, acting  animal.  He  is  influenced  by  what  is  direct  and 
precise.  It  is  very  well  to  freshen  our  impressions  and  convictions  from 
physics,  but  to  create  them  we  must  go  elsewhere.  Sir  Robert  Peel 
"never  can  think  it  possible  that  a  mind  can  be  so  constituted  that, 
after  being  familiarized  with  the  wonderful  discoveries  which  have  been 
made  in  every  part  of  experimental  science,  it  can  retire  from  such  con- 
templation without  more  enlarged  conceptions  of  God's  providence,  and 
a  higher  reverejice  for  his  name."  If  he  speaks  of  religious  minds,  he 
perpetrates  a  truism;  if  of  irreligious,  he  insinuates  a  paradox. 

Life  is  not  long  enough  for  a  religion  of  inferences;  we  shall  never 
have  done  beginning,  if  we  determine  to  begin  with  proof.  We  shall 
ever  be  laying  our  foundations,  we  shall  turn  theology  into  evidences 
and  divines  into  textuaries.  We  shall  never  get  at  our  first  principles. 
Resolve  to  believe  nothing,  and  you  must  prove  your  proof  and  analyze 
your  elements,  sinking  farther  and  farther,  and  finding  in  the  lowest 
depth  a  lower  deep,  till  you  come  to  the  broad  bosom  of  skepticism.  I 
would  rather  be  bound  to  defend  the  reasonableness  of  assuming  that 
Christianity  is  true  than  to  demonstrate  a  moral  governance  from  the 
physical  world.  Life  is  for  action.  If  we  insist  on  proofs  for  every- 
thing, we  shall  never  come  to  action ;  to  act  you  must  assume,  and  that 
assumption  is  faith. 

LiESSOisr  53. 

George  Eliot. — "  We  feel  that,  however  much  we  may  admire  the  other 
great  English  novelists,  there  is  none  who  would  make  the  study  of 
George  Eliot  superfluous.  The  sphere  which  she  made  her  own  is  that 
quiet  English  country  life  which  she  knew  in  early  youth.  It  has  been, 
described  with  more  or  less  vivacity  and  sympathy  by  many  observers. 
Nobody  has  approached  George  Eliot  in  the  power  of  seizing  its  essen- 
tial characteristics  and  exhibiting  its  real  charm.  She  has  done  for  it 
what  Scott  did  for  the  Scotch  peasantry,  or  Fielding  for  the  eighteentlj> 


S9^       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


century  Englishman,  or  Thackeray  for  the  higher  social  stratum  of  his 
time.  Its  last  traces  are  vanishing  so  rapidly  amidst  the  changes  of 
modern  revolution,  that  its  picture  could  hardly  be  drawn  again,  even 
if  there  were  an  artist  of  equal  skill  and  penetration.  And  thus,  when 
the  name  of  George  Eliot  is  mentioned,  it  calls  up,  to  me  at  least,  and,  I 
suspect,  to  most  readers,  not  so  much  her  later  and  more  ambitious 
works,  as  the  exquisite  series  of  scenes  so  lovingly  and  vividly  presented 
in  the  earlier  stage. 

She  has  been  approached,  if  she  has  not  been  surpassed,  by  other  writ- 
ers in  her  idyllic  effects.  But  there  is  something  less  easily  paralleled 
in  the  peculiar  vein  of  humor  which  is  the  essential  complement  of  the 
more  tender  passages.  Mrs.  Poyser  is  necessary  to  balance  the  solemnity 
of  Dinah  Morris;  Silas  Marner  would  lose  half  his  impressiveness  if  he 
were  not  in  contrast  with  the  inimitable  party  in  the  '  Rainbow  '  parlor. 

It  is  enough  to  take  note  of  the  fact  that  George  Eliot  possessed  a  vein 
of  humor  of  which  it  is  little  to  say  that  it  is  incomparably  superior  in 
depth,  if  not  in  delicacy,  to  that  of  any  feminine  writer.  It  is  the 
humor  of  a  calm,  contemplative  mind,  familiar  with  wide  fields  of 
knowledge,  and  capable  of  observing  the  little  dramas  of  rustic  life  from 
a  higher  standing-point.  It  is  not — in  these  earlier  books  at  any  rate — 
that  she  obtrudes  her  acquirements  upon  us;  for,  if  here  and  there  we 
find  some  of  those  scientific  illusions  which  afterward  became  a  kind  of 
mannerism,  they  are  introduced  without  any  appearance  of  forcing.  It 
is  simply  that  she  is  awake  to  those  quaint  aspects  of  the  little  world 
before  her,  which  only  show  their  quaintness  to  the  cultivated  intellect. 

There  is  the  breadth  of  touch,  the  large-minded  equable  spirit  of  lov- 
ing, contemplative  thought,  which  is  fully  conscious  of  the  narrow 
limitations  of  the  actor's  thoughts  and  habits,  but  does  not  cease  on  that 
account  to  sympathize  with  his  joys  and  sorrows.  We  are  on  a  petty 
stage,  but  not  in  a  stifling  atmosphere,  and  we  are  not  called  upon  to 
accept  the  prejudices  of  the  actors,  or  to  be  angry  with  them,  but  simply 
to  understand  and  be  tolerant." — Leslie  Stephen. 

From  George  Eliot's  Adam  Bede. 
Hetty  was  coming  down  stairs,  and  Mrs.  Poyser,  in  her  plain  bonnet 
and  shawl,  was  standing  below.  If  ever  a  girl  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
made  of  roses,  that  girl  was  Hetty  in  her  Sunday  hat  and  frock.  For 
her  hat  was  trimmed  with  pink,  and  her  frock  had  pink  spots  sprinkled 
on  a  white  ground.  There  was  nothing  but  pink  and  white  about  her, 
except  in  her  dark  hair  and  eyes  and  her  little  buckled  shoes.  Mrs.  Poyser 
was  provoked  at  herself,  for  she  could  hardly  keep  from  smiling,  as  any 


Prose— George  Eliot's.  293 

mortal  is  inclined  to  do  at  the  sight  of  pretty,  round  things.  So  she 
turned  without  speaking  and  joined  tlie  group  outside  the  house  door, 
followed  by  Hetty,  whose  heart  wa^  flutter! ug  so  at  the  thought  of  some 
one  she  expected  to  see  at  church  that  she  hardly  felt  the  ground  she 
trod  on. 

And  now  the  little  procession  set  off.  Mr.  Poyser  was  in  his  Sunday 
suit  of  drab,  with  a  red  and  green  waistcoat,  and  a  green  watch-ribbon, 
having  a  large  cornelian  seal  attached,  pendent  like  a  plumb-line  from 
that  promontory  where  his  watch-pocket  was  situated;  a  silk  handker- 
chief of  a  yellow  tone  round  his  neck,  and  excellent  gray  ribbed  stock- 
ings, knitted  by  Mrs.  Poyser's  own  hands,  setting  off  the  proportions  of 
his  leg.  Mr.  Poyser  had  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  his  leg,  and  sus- 
pected that  the  growing  abuse  of  top-boots  and  other  fashions  tending 
to  disguise  the  nether  limbs,  had  their  origin  in  a  pitiable  degeneracy  of 
the  human  calf.  Still  less  had  he  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  his  round, 
jolly  face,  which  was  good-humor  itself,  as  he  said,  '•  Come,  Hetty,— 
come,  little  uns!"  and,  giving  his  arm  to  his  wife,  led  the  way  through 
the  causeway  gate  into  the  yard. 

The  "  little  uns"  addressed  were  Marty  and  Tommy,  boys  of  nine  and 
seven,  in  little  fustian  tailed  coats  and  knee-breeches,  relieved  by  rosy 
cheeks  and  black  eyes;  looking  as  much  like  their  father  as  a  very  small 
elephant  is  like  a  very  large  one.  Hetty  walked  between  them,  and  behind 
came  patient  Molly,  whose  task  it  was  to  carry  Totty  through  the  yard 
and  over  all  the  wet  places  on  the  road;  for  Totty,  having  speedily 
recovered  from  her  threatened  fever,  had  insisted  on  going  to  church 
to-day,  and  especially  on  wearing  her  red-and-black  necklace  outside 
her  tippet.  And  there  were  many  wet  places  for  her  to  be  carried  over 
this  afternoon,  for  there  had  been  heavy  showers  in  the  morning,  though 
now  the  clouds  had  rolled  off  and  lay  in  towering  silvery  masses  on  the 
horizon. 

You  might  have  known  it  was  Sunday  if  you  had  only  waked  up  in 
the  farm-yard.  The  cocks  and  the  hens  seemed  to  know  it,  and  made 
only  crooning  subdued  noises;  the  very  bull-dog  looked  less  savage,  as 
if  he  would  have  been  satisfied  with  a  smaller  bite  than  usual.  The 
sunshine  seemed  to  call  all  things  to  rest  and  not  to  labor;  it  was  asleep 
itself  on  the  moss  grown  cow-shed;  on  the  group  of  white  ducks  nest- 
ling together  with  their  bills  tucked  under  their  wings;  on  the  old  black 
sow  stretched  languidly  on  the  straw,  while  her  largest  young  one 
found  an  excellent  spring-bed  on  his  mother's  fat  ribs;  on  Alick,  the 
shepherd,  in  his  new  smock-frock,  taking  an  uneasy  siesta,  half-sitting, 
half-Standing  on  the  granary  steps.    Alick  was  of  opinion  that  church, 


294       Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


like  other  luxuries,  was  not  to  be  indulged  in  often  by  a  foreman  who 
had  the  weather  and  the  ewes  on  his  mind.  "  Church!  nay — I'n  gotten 
summat  else  to  think  on,"  was  an  answer  which  he  often  uttered  in  a 
tone  of  bitter  significance  that  silenced  farther  question.  I  feel  sure 
Alick  meant  no  irreverence;  indeed,  I  know  that  his  mind  was  not  of  a 
speculative,  negative  cast,  and  he  w^ould  on  no  account  have  missed 
going  to  church  on  Christmas-day,  Easter  Sunday,  and  *' Whissuntide. 
But  he  had  a  general  impression  that  public  worship  and  religious  cere- 
monies, like  other  non-productive  employments,  were  intended  for  peo- 
ple who  had  leisure, 

"There's  father  a-standing  at  the  yard  gate,"  said  Martin  Poyser. 
"I  reckon  he  wants  to  watch  us  down  the  field.  It's  wonderful  what 
sight  he  has,  and  him  turned  seventy-five." 

"  Ah!  I  often  think  it's  wi'  th'  old  folks  as  it  is  wi'  the  babbies,"  said 
Mrs.  Poyser;  "they're  satisfied  wi'  looking,  no  matter  what  they're 
looking  at.  It's  God  Almighty's  way  o'  quietening  'em,  I  reckon,  afore 
they  go  to  sleep." 

Old  Martin  opened  the  gate  as  he  saw  the  family  procession  approach- 
ing, and  held  it  wide  open,  leaning  on  his  stick— pleased  to  do  this  bit 
of  work;  for,  like  all  old  men  whose  life  has  been  spent  in  labor,  he 
liked  to  feel  that  he  was  still  useful — that  there  was  a  better  crop  of 
onions  in  the  garden  because  he  was  by  at  the  sowing,  and  that  the  cows 
would  be'  milked  the  better  if  he  staid  at  home  on  a  Sunday  afternoon 
to  look  on.  He  always  went  to  church  on  Sacrament  Sundays,  but  not 
very  regularly  at  other  times;  on  wet  Sundays,  or  whenever  he  had  a 
touch  of  rheumatism,  he  used  to  read  the  three  first  chapters  of  Genesis 
instead. 

"  They'll  ha  putten  Thias  Bede  i'  the  ground  afore  ye  get  to  the  church- 
yard," he  said,  as  his  son  came  up.  "It  'ud  ha'  been  better  luck  if 
they'd  ha'  buried  him  i'  the  forenoon  when  the  rain  was  fallin';  there's 
no  likelihoods  of  a  drop  now,  an'  the  moon  lies  like  a  boat  there,  dost 
see?  That's  a  sure  sign  of  fair  weather;  there's  a  many  as  is  false,  but 
that's  sure." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  the  son,  "I'm  m  hopes  it'll  hold  up  now\" 

"  Mind  what  the  parson  says — mind  what  the  parson  says,  my  lads," 
said  grandfather  to  the  black-eyed  youngsters  in  knee-breeches,  con- 
scious of  a  marble  or  two  in  their  pockets,  which  they  looked  forward 
to  handling  a  little,  secretly,  during  the  sermon. 

And  when  they  were  all  gone,  the  old  man  leaned  on  the  gate  again, 
watching  them  across  the  lane,  along  the  Home  Close,  and  through  the 
far  gate,  till  they  disappeared  behind  a  bend  in  the  hedge.    For  the 


Frose— George  Ellofs.  295 

hedgerows  in  those  days  shut  out  one's  view,  even  on  the  better-man- 
aged farms;  and  this  afternoon  the  dog-roses  were  tossing  out  their  pink 
wreaths,  the  night-shade  was  in  its  yellow  and  purple  glory,  the  pale 
honeysuckle  grew  out  of  reach,  peeping  high  up  out  of  a  holly  bush, 
and,  over  all,  an  ash  or  a  sycamore  every  now  and  then  threw  its 
shadow  across  the  path. 

There  were  acquaintances  at  other  gates  who  had  to  move  aside  and 
let  them  pass;  at  the  gate  of  the  Home  Close  there  was  half  the  dairy  of 
cows  standing  one  behind  the  other,  extremely  slow  to  understand  that 
their  large  bodies  might  be  in  the  way;  at  the  far  gate  there  was  the 
mare  holding  her  head  over  the  bars,  and  beside  her  the  liver-colored 
foal  with  its  head  toward  its  mother's  flank,  apparently  still  much  embar- 
rassed by  its  own  straddling  existence.  The  way  lay  entirely  through 
Mr.  Poyser's  own  fields  till  they  reached  the  main  road  leading  to  the 
village,  and  he  turned  a  keen  eye  on  the  stock  and  the  crops  as  they 
went  along,  while  Mrs.  Poyser  was  ready  to  supply  a  running  commen- 
tary on  them  all.  The  woman  who  manages  a  dairy  has  a  large  share 
in  making  the  rent,  so  she  may  well  be  allowed  to  have  her  opinion  on 
stock  and  their  "keep" — an  exercise  which  strengthens  her  understand- 
ing so  much  that  she  finds  herself  able  to  give  her  husband  advice  on 
most  other  subjects. 

'*  There's  that  short-horned  Sally,"  she  said,  as  they  entered  the  Home 
Close,  and  she  caught  sight  of  the  meek  beast  that  lay  chewing  the  cud, 
and  looking  at  her  with  a  sleepy  eye.  "  I  begin  to  hate  the  sight  o'  the 
cow;  and  I  say  now  what  I  said  three  weeks  ago,  the  sooner  we  get  rid 
of  her  th'  better,  for  there's  that  little  yallow  cow  as  doesn't  give  half 
the  milk  and  yet  I've  twice  as  much  butter  from  her." 

"Why,  thee't  not  like  the  women  in  general,"  said  Mr.  Poyser;  "they 
like  the  short-horns,  as  give  such  a  lot  of  milk.  There's  Chowne's  wife 
wants  him  to  buy  no  other  sort." 

"  What's  it  sinnify  what  Chowne's  wife  likes?  a  poor  soft  thing,  wi' 
no  more  head-piece  nor  a  sparrow.  She'd  take  a  big  cullender  to  strain 
her  lard  wi',  and  then  wander  as  the  scratchin's  run  through.  I've  seen 
enough  of  her  to  know  as  I'll  niver  take  a  servant  from  her  house 
again — all  huggermugger — and  you'd  niver  know,  when  you  went  in, 
whether  it  was  Monday  or  Friday,  the  wash  draggin'  on  to  th'  end  o' 
the  week;  and  as  for  her  cheese,  I  know  well  enough  it  rose  like  a  loaf 
in  a  tin  last  year.  An'  then  she  talks  o'  the  weather  bein'  i'  fault,  as 
there's  folks  'ud  stand  on  their  heads  and  then  say  the  fault  was  i'  their 
boots. " 

"  Well,  Chowne's  been  wanting  to  buy  Sally,  so  we  can  get  rid  of  her, 


296        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


if  thee  lik'st,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  secretly  proud  of  his  wife's  superioi 
power  of  putting  two  and  two  together;  indeed,  on  recent  market  days, 
he  had  more  tlian  once  boasted  of  her  discernment  in  this  very  matter 
of  short-horns, 

"  Ay,  them  as  choose  a  soft  for  a  wife  may's  well  buy  up  the  short- 
horns, for,  if  you  get  your  head  stuck  in  a  bog,  your  legs  may's  well  go 
after  it.  Eh!  talk  o'  legs,  there's  legs  for  you,"  Mrs,  Poyser  continued, 
as  Totty,  who  had  been  set  down  now  the  road  was  dry,  toddled  on  in 
front  of  her  father  and  mother.  **  There's  shapes!  An'  she's  got  such  a 
long  foot,  she'll  be  her  father's  own  child." 

"Ay,  she'll  be  welly  such  a  one  as  Hetty  i'  ten  years  time,  ony 
she's  got  thy  colored  eyes.  I  niver  remember  a  blue  eye  i'  my  family; 
my  mother  had  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  just  like  Hetty's." 

"The  child 'uU  be  none  the  worse  for  having  summat  as  isn't  like 
Hetty.  An'  I'm  none  for  having  her  so  over  pretty.  Though,  for  the 
matter  o'  that,  there's  people  wi'  light  hair  an'  blue  eyes  as  pretty  as 
them  wi'  black.  If  Dinah  had  got  a  bit  o'  color  in  her  cheeks,  an' 
didn't  stick  that  Methodist  cap  on  her  head,  enough  to  frighten  the 
crows,  folks  'ud  think  her  as  pretty  as  Hetty." 

'•Nay,  nay,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  with  rather  a  contemptuous  emphasis, 
"  thee  dostna  know  the  pints  of  a  woman.  The  men  'ud  niver  run  after 
Dinah  as  they  would  after  Hetty." 

"What  care  I  what  the  men  'ud  run  after?  It's  well  seen  what  choice 
the  most  of  'em  know  how  to  make,  by  the  poor  draggle-tails  o'  wives  you 
see,  like  bits  o'  gauze  ribbin,  good  for  nothing  when  the  color's  gone." 

"Well,  well,  thee  canstna  say  but  what  I  know'd  how  to  make  a 
choice  when  I  married  thee,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  who  usually  settled  little 
conjugal  disputes  by  a  compliment  of  this  sort,  "and  thee  was  twice  as 
buxom  as  Dinah  ten  years  ago." 

"  I  niver  said  as  a  woman  had  need  to  be  ugly  to  make  a  good  missis  of 
a  house.  There's  Chovvne's  wife  ugly  enough  to  turn  the  milk  an'  save 
the  rennet,  but  she'll  niver  save  nothing  any  other  way.  But  as  for 
Dinah,  poor  child,  she's  niver  likely  to  be  buxom  as  long  as  she'll  make 
her  dinner  o'  cake  and  water,  for  the  sake  o'  giving  to  them  as  want. 
She  provoked  me  past  bearing  sometimes;  and,  as  I  told  her,  she  went 
clean  again'  the  Scriptur,  for  that  saj^s,  '  Love  your  neighbor  as  your- 
self;' but  I  said,  '  if  you  loved  your  neighbor  no  better  nor  you  do  your- 
self, Dinah,  it's  little  enough  you'd  do  for  him.  You'd  be  thinking  he 
might  do  well  enough  on  a  half-empty  stomach.'  Eh,  I  wonder  where 
she  is  this  blessed  Sunday!  sitting  by  that  sick  woman,  I  daresay,  as  she'd 
set  her  heart  on  going  to  all  of  a  sudden," 


Frose— George  Eliot's.  297 

"  Ah!  it  was  a  pity  she  should  take  such  megrims  int'  her  head,  when 
she  might  ha'  stayed  wi'  us  all  summer,  aud  eateu  twice  as  much  as  she 
wanted,  and  it  'ud  niver  ha'  been  missed.  She  made  no  odds  in  th' 
house  at  all,  for  she  sat  as  still  at  her  sewing  as  a  bird  on  the  nest,  and 
was  uncommon  nimble  at  running  to  fetch  anything.  If  Hetty  gets 
married,  thee'dst  like  to  ha'  Dinah  wi'  thee  constant." 

"  It's  no  use  thiukin'  o'  that,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser.  "  You  might  as  well 
beckon  to  the  flyin'  swallow,  as  ask  Dinah  to  come  an'  live  here  com- 
fortable like  other  folks.  If  any  thing  could  turn  her  I  should  ha' 
turned  her,  for  I've  talked  to  her  for  an  hour  on  end,  and  scolded  her 
too;  for  she's  my  own  sister's  child,  and  it  behoves  me  to  do  what  I  can 
for  her.  But  eh,  poor  thing,  as  soon  as  she'd  said  us  'good-bye,' an' 
got  into  the  cart,  an'  looked  back  at  me  with  her  pale  face,  as  is  welly 
like  her  aunt  Judith  come  back  from  heaven,  I  begun  to  be  frightened 
to  think  o'  the  set  downs  I'd  given  her;  for  it  comes  over  you  sometimes 
as  if  she'd  a  way  o'  knowing  the  rights  o'  things  more  nor  other  folks 
have.  But  I'll  niver  give  in  as  that's  'cause  she's  a  Methodist,  no  more 
nor  a  white  calf's  white  'cause  it  eats  out  o'  the  same  bucket  wi'  a  black 
un." 

"  Nay,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  with  as  near  an  approach  to  a  snarl  as  his 
good-nature  would  allow;  ''I've  no  opinion  o'  the  Methodists.  It's  ony 
trades-folks  as  turn  Methodists,  you  niver  knew  a  farmer  bitten  wi'  them 
maggots.  There's  maybe  a  workman  now  and  then,  as  isn't  over  cliver 
at's  work,  takes  to  preachin'  an'  that,  like  Seth  Bede.  But  you  see 
Adam,  as  hns  got  one  of  the  best  head-pieces  hereabout,  knows  better; 
he's  a  good  Churchman,  else  I'd  niver  encourage  him  for  a  sweetheart 
for  Hetty." 

Adam  was  hungering  for  a  sight  of  Dinah ;  and  when  that  sort  of 
hunger  reaches  a  certain  stage,  a  lover  is  likely  to  still  it  though  he  may 
have  to  put  his  future  in  pawn. 

But  what  harm  could  he  do  by  going  to  Snowfield?  Dinah  could  not 
he  displeased  with  him  for  it;  she  had  not  forbidden  him  to  go;  she 
must  surely  expect  that  he  would  go  before  long.  By  the  second  Sun- 
day in  October,  this  view  of  the  case  had  become  so  clear  to  Adam,  that 
he  was  already  on  his  way  to  Snowfield,  on  horseback  this  time,  for  his 
hours  were  precious  now,  and  he  had  borrowed  Jonathan  Burge's  good 
nag  for  the  journey. 

What  keen  memories  went  along  the  road  with  him!  He  had  often 
been  to  Oakbourne  and  back  since  that  first  journey  to  Snowfield.  but 
beyond  Oakbourne,  the  gray  stone  walls,  the  broken  country,  the  meagre 


298       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


trees,  seemed  to  be  telling  him  afresh  the  story  of  that  painful  past 
which  he  knew  so  well  by  heart.  But  no  story  is  the  same  to  us  after 
a  lapse  of  time;  or  rather,  we  who  read  it  are  no  longer  the  same  in- 
terpreters; and  Adam  this  morning  brought  with  him  new  thoughts 
through  that  gray  country — tlioughts  which  gave  an  altered  significance 
to  its  story  of  the  past. 

That  is  a  base  and  selfish,  even  a  blasphemous,  spirit  which  rejoices 
and  is  thankful  over  the  past  evil  that  has  blighted  or  crushed  another, 
because  it  has  been  made  the  source  of  unforeseen  good  to  ourselves; 
Adam  could  never  cease  to  mourn  over  that  mystery  of  human  sorrow 
which  had  been  brought  so  close  to  him ;  he  could  never  thank  God  for 
another's  misery.  And  if  I  were  capable  of  that  narrow-siglited  joy  in 
Adam's  behalf,  I  should  still  know  he  was  not  the  man  to  feel  it  for  him. 
self;  he  would  have  shaken  his  head  at  such  a  sentiment,  and  said, 
"Evil's  evil,  and  sorrow's  sorrow,  and  you  can't  alter  its  nature  by 
wrapping  it  up  in  other  words.  Other  folks  were  not  created  for  my 
sake,  that  I  should  think  all  square  when  things  turn  out  well  for  me." 

But  it  is  not  ignoble  to  feel  that  the  fuller  life  which  a  sad  experience 
has  brought  us  is  worth  our  own  personal  share  of  pain;  surely  it  is  not 
possible  to  feel  otherwise,  any  more  than  it  would  be  possible  for  a  man 
with  cataract  to  regret  the  painful  process  by  which  his  dim,  blurred 
sight  of  men  as  trees  walking  had  been  exchanged  for  clear  outline  and 
effulgent  day.  The  growth  of  higher  feeling  within  us  is  like  the 
growth  of  faculty,  bringing  with  it  the  sense  of  added  strength;  we  can 
no  more  wish  to  return  to  a  narrower  sympathy  than  a  painter  or  a 
musician  can  wish  to  return  to  his  cruder  manner,  or  a  philosopher  to 
his  less  complete  formula. 

Something  like  this  sense  of  enlarged  being  was  in  Adam's  mind  this 
Sunday  morning,  as  he  rode  along  in  vivid  recollection  of  the  past.  His 
feeling  toward  Dinah,  the  hope  of  passing  his  life  with  her  had  been 
the  distant  unseen  point  toward  which  that  hard  journey  from  Snowfield 
eighteen  months  ago  had  been  leading  him.  "  It's  like  as  if  it  was  a 
new  strength  to  me,"  he  said  to  himself,  "love  her,  and  know  as  she 
loves  me.  I  shall  look  t'  her  to  help  me  to  see  things  right.  For  she's 
better  than  I  am — there's  less  o'  self  in  her,  and  pride.  And  it's  a  feel- 
ing as  gives  you  a  sort  o'  liberty,  as  if  you  could  walk  more  fearless, 
when  you've  more  trust  in  another  than  y'  have  in  yourself.  I've 
always  been  thinking  I  knew  better  than  them  as  belonged  to  me,  and 
that's  a  poor  sort  o'  life,  when  you  can't  look  to  them  nearest  to  you  t' 
help  you  with  a  bit  better  thought  than  what  you've  got  inside  you 
a' ready." 


Prose — George  Eliofs.  299 

It  was  more  than  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  Adam  came  in 
sight  of  the  gray  town  on  the  hill-side,  and  looked  searchingly  toward 
the  green  valley  below  for  the  first  glimpse  of  the  old  thatched  roof  near 
the  ugly  red  mill.  The  scene  looked  less  harsh  in  the  soft  October  sun- 
shine than  it  had  done  in  the  eager  time  of  early  spring;  and  the  one 
grand  charm  it  possessed,  in  common  witli  all  wide-stretching  woodless 
regions — that  it  filled  you  with  a  new  consciousness  of  the  over-arching 
sky — had  a  milder,  more  soothing  influence  than  usual  oh  this  almost 
cloudless  day.  Adam's  doubts  and  fears  melted  under  this  influence  as 
the  delicate  web-like  clouds  had  gradually  melted  away  into  the  clear 
blue  above  him.  He  seemed  to  see  Dinali's  gentle  face  assuring  him, 
with  its  looks  alone,  of  all  he  longed  to  know. 

He  did  not  expect  Dinah  to  be  at  home  at  this  hour,  but  he  got  down 
from  his  horse  and  tied  it  at  the  little  gate  that  he  might  ask  where  she 
was  gone  to  day.  He  had  set  his  mind  on  following  her  and  bringing 
her  home.  She  was  gone  to  Sloman's  End,  a  hamlet  about  three  miles 
off,  over  the  hill,  the  old  woman  told  him;  had  set  off  directly  after 
morning  chapel,  to  preach  in  a  cottage  there,  as  her  habit  was.  Any 
body  at  the  town  would  tell  him  the  way  to  Sloman's  End.  So  Adam 
got  on  his  horse  again  and  rode  to  the  town,  putting  up  at  the  old  inn, 
and  taking  a  hasty  dinner  there  in  the  company  of  the  too  chatty  laud- 
lord,  from  whose  friendly  questions  and  reminiscences  he  was  glad  to 
escape  as  soon  as  possible,  and  set  out  toward  Sloman's  End.  With 
all  his  haste,  it  was  nearly  four  o'clock  before  he  could  set  off,  and  he 
thought  that  as  Dinah  had  gone  so  early,  she  would,  perhaps,  already 
be  near  returning.  The  little,  gray,  desolate-looking  hamlet,  unscreened 
by  sheltering  trees,  lay  in  sight  long  before  he  reached  it;  and,  as  he 
came  near,  he  could  hear  the  sound  of  voices  singing  a  hj'mn.  "Per- 
haps that's  the  last  hymn  before  they  come  away,"  Adam  thought;  "I'll 
walk  back  a  bit,  and  turn  again  to  meet  her,  farther  off  the  village." 
He  walked  back  till  he  got  nearly  to  the  top  of  the  hill  again,  and 
seated  himself  on  a  loose  stone  against  the  low  wall,  to  watch  till  he 
should  see  the  little  black  figure  leaving  the  hamlet  and  winding  up  the 
hill.  He  chose  this  spot,  almost  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  because  it  was 
away  from  all  eyes— no  house,  no  cattle,  not  even  a  nibbling  sheep 
near,— no  presence  but  the  still  lights  and  shadows,  and  the  great  em- 
bracing sky. 

She  was  much  longer  coming  than  he  expected;  he  waited  an  hour  at 
least,  watching  for  her  and  thinking  of  her,  while  the  afternoon  shad- 
ows lengthened,  and  the  light  grew  softer.  At  last  he  saw  the  little 
black  figure  coming  from  between  the  gray  houses,  and  gradually  ap- 


300       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


proaching  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Slowly,  Adam  thought;  but  Dinah  was 
really  walking  at  her  usual  pace,  with  a  light,  quiet  step.  Now  she  was 
beginning  to  wind  along  the  path  up  the  hill,  but  Adam  would  not  move 
yet;  he  would  not  meet  her  too  soon;  he  had  set  his  heart  on  meeting 
her  in  this  assured  loneliness.  And  now  lie  began  to  fear  lest  he  should 
startle  lier  too  much ;  ' '  Yet,"  he  thought,  "  she's  not  one  to  be  overstartled ; 
she's  always  so  calm  and  quiet,  as  if  she  was  prepared  for  anything." 

What  was  she  thinking  of  as  she  wound  up  the  hill?  Perhaps  she 
had  found  complete  repose  without  him,  and  had  ceased  to  feel  any  need 
of  his  love.  On  the  verge  of  a  decision  we  all  tremble;  hope  pauses 
with  fluttering  wings. 

But  now  at  last  she  was  very  near,  and  Adam  rose  from  the  stone 
wall.  It  happened  that,  just  as  he  walked  forward,  Dinah  had  paused  and 
turned  around  to  look  back  at  the  village:  who  does  not  pause  and  look 
back  in  mounting  a  hill?  Adam  was  glad,  for,  with  the  fine  instinct  of 
a  lover,  he  felt  that  it  would  be  best  for  her  to  hear  his  voice  before  she 
saw  him.  He  came  within  three  paces  of  her,  and  then  said,  "Dinah!" 
She  started  without  looking  round,  as  if  she  connected  the  sound  with 
no  place.  "  Dinah!"  Adam  said  again.  He  knew  quite  well  what  was 
in  her  mind.  She  was  so  accustomed  to  think  of  impressions  as  purely 
spiritual  monitions,  that  she  looked  for  no  material  visible  accompani- 
ment of  the  voice. 

But  this  second  time  she  looked  around.  "What  a  look  of  yearning 
love  it  was  that  the  mild  gray  eyes  turned  on  the  strong  dark-eyed  man! 
She  did  not  start  again  at  the  sight  of  him ;  she  said  nothing,  but  moved 
toward  him  so  that  his  arm  could  clasp  her  round. 

And  they  walked  on  so  in  silence,  while  the  warm  tears  fell.  Adam 
was  content,  and  said  nothing.     It  was  Dinah  wiio  spoke  first, 

"Adam,"  she  said,  "  it  is  the  Divine  Will.  My  soul  is  so  knit  to 
yours  that  it  is  but  a  divided  life  I  live  without  you.  And  this  moment, 
now  you  are  with  me,  and  I  feel  that  our  hearts  are  filled  with  the  same 
love,  I  have  a  fullness  of  strength  to  bear  and  do  our  heavenly  Father's 
will,  that  I  had  lost  before," 

Adam  paused  and  looked  into  her  sincere,  loving  eyes. 

"  Then  we'll  never  part  any  more,  Dinah,  till  death  parts  us," 

And  they  kissed  each  other  with  a  deep  joy. 

What  greater  thing  is  there  for  two  human  souls,  than  to  feel  that 
they  are  joined  for  life — to  strengthen  each  other  in  all  labor,  to  rest 
on  each  other  in  all  sorrow,  to  minister  to  each  other  in  all  pain,  to  be 
one  with  each  other  in  silent,  unspeakable  memories  at  the  moment  of 
the  last  parting. 


Prose — Charles  Dickens's,  301 


From  Dickens's  Pickwick  Papers. 

•'Nathaniel  Winiile!"  said  Mr.  Skimpin. 

"  Here!"  replied  a  feeble  voice.  Mr.  Winkle  entered  the  witness-box, 
and,  having  been  duly  sworn,  bowed  to  the  judge  with  considerable 
deference. 

"  Don't  look  at  me,  sir,"  said  the  judge,  sharply,  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  salute;  "  look  at  the  jury." 

Mr.  Winkle  obeyed  the  mandate,  and  looked  at  the  place  where  he 
thought  it  most  probable  the  jury  might  be;  for  seeing  anything  in  his 
then  state  of  intellectual  complication  was  wholly  out  of  the  question. 

Mr.  Winkle  was  then  examined  by  Mr.  Skimpin,  who,  being  a  prom- 
ising young  man  of  two  or  three  and  forty,  was  of  course  anxious  to 
confuse  a  witness  who  was  notoriously  predisposed  in  favor  of  the 
other  side,  as  much  as  he  could. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Skimpin,  "have  the  goodness  to  let  his  lordship 
and  the  jury  know  what  your  name  is,  will  you?"  And  Mr.  Skimpin 
inclined  his  head  on  one  side  to  listen  with  great  sharpness  to  the  an- 
swer, and  glanced  at  the  jury  meanwhile,  as  if  to  imply  that  he  rather 
expected  Mr.  Winkle's  natural  taste  for  perjury  would  induce  him  to 
give  some  name  which  did  not  belong  to  him. 

"  Winkle,"  replied  the  witness. 

"What  is  your  Christian  name,  sir?"  angrily  inquired  the  little  judge. 

"Nathaniel,  sir." 

"Daniel, — any  other  name?" 

"  Nathaniel,  sir,—  my  lord,  I  mean." 

"Nathaniel  Daniel,  or  Daniel  Nathaniel?" 

"No,  my  lord,  only  Nathaniel, — not  Daniel  at  all." 

"What  did  you  tell  me  it  was  Daniel  for  then,  sir?"  inquired  the 
judge. 

"  I  didn't,  my  lord,"  replied  Mr.  Winkle. 

"You  did,  sir,"  replied  the  judge,  with  a  severe  frown.  "How 
could  I  have  got  Daniel  on  my  notes  unless  you  told  me  so,  sir?" 

This  argument  was  of  course  unanswerable. 

"Mr.  Winkle  has  rather  a  short  memory,  my  lord,"  interposed  Mr. 
Skimpin,  with  another  glance  at  the  jury.  "We  shall  find  means  to 
refresh  it  before  we  have  quite  done  with  him,  I  dare  say." 

"  You  had  better  be  careful,  sir,"  said  the  little  judge,  with  a  sinister 
look  at  the  witness. 

Poor  Mr.  Winkle  bowed,  and  endeavored  to  feign  an  easiness  of  man- 


803       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 . 

ner,  which,  in  his  then  state  of  confusion,  gave  him  rather  the  air  of  a 
disconcerted  pickpocket. 

"Now,  Mr.  Winkle,"  said  Mr.  Skimpin,  "  attend  to  me,  if  you  please, 
sir;  and  let  me  recommend  you,  for  your  own  sake,  to  bear  in  mind  his 
lordship's  injunctions  to  be  careful.  I  believe  you  are  a  particular  friend 
of  Pickwick,  the  defendant,  are  you  not?" 

"I  have  known  Mr.  Pickwick  now,  as  well  as  I  recollect  at  this  mo- 
ment, nearly — " 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Winkle,  do  not  evade  the  question.  Are  you,  or  are  you 
not,  a  particular  friend  of  the  defendant's?" 

"  I  was  just  about  to  say,  that — " 

"Will  you,  or  will  you  not,  answer  ray  question,  sir?" 

"  If  you  don't  answer  the  question,  you'll  be  committed,  sir,"  inter- 
posed the  little  judge,  looking  over  his  note-book. 

"Come,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Skimpin;  "yes  or  no,  if  you  please." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  replied  Mr.  Winkle. 

"Yes,  you  are.  And  why  couldn't  you  say  that  at  once,  sir?  Per- 
haps you  know  the  plaintiff  too, — eh,  Mr.  Winkle?" 

"I  don't  know  her;  I've  seen  her." 

"  O,  you  don't  know  her,  but  you've  seen  her?  Now,  have  the  good- 
ness to  tell  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury  what  you  mean  by  that,  Mr. 
Winkle?" 

"I  mean  that  lam  not  intimate  with  her,  but  that  I  have  seen  her 
when  I  went  to  call  on  Mr.  Pickwick,  in  Goswell  Street." 

"How  often  have  you  seen  her,  sir?" 

"How  often?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Winkle,  how  often?  I'll  repeat  the  question  for  you  a 
dozen  times,  if  you  require  it,  sir."  And  the  learned  gentleman,  with  a 
firm  and  steady  frown,  placed  his  hands  on  his  hips  and  smiled  suspi- 
ciously at  the  jury. 

On  this  question  there  arose  the  edifying  brow-beating  customary  on 
such  points.  First  of  all,  Mr.  Winkle  said  it  was  quite  impossible  for 
him  to  say  how  many  times  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Bardell.  Then  he  was 
asked  if  he  had  seen  her  twenty  times,  to  which  he  replied,  "  Certainly, — 
more  than  that. "  Then  he  was  asked  whether  he  hadn't  seen  her  a  hundred 
times, — whether  he  couldn't  swear  that  he  had  seen  her  more  than  fifty 
times, — whether  he  didn't  know  that  he  had  seen  her  at  least  seventy- 
five  times, — and  so  forth;  the  satisfactory  conclusion  which  was  arrived 
at  at  last  being,  that  he  had  better  take  care  of  himself,  and  mind  what 
he  was  about.  The  witness  having  been  by  these  means  reduced  to  the 
requisite  ebb  of  nervous  perplexity,  the  examination  was  continued  as 
follows: — 


Prose — Charles  Dickens'' s.  803 


*'  Pray,  Mr.  Winkle,  do  you  remember  calling  on  the  defendant  Pick- 
wick, and  these  apartments  in  the  plaintiff's  house  in  Goswell  Street,  on 
one  particular  morning  in  the  month  of  July  last?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  Were  you  accompanied  on  that  occasion  by  a  friend  of  the  name  of 
Tupman,  and  another  of  the  name  of  Snodgrass?" 

"Yes.  I  was." 

"  Are  they  here?" 

"  Yes,  they  are,"  replied  Mr.  Winkle,  looking  very  earnestly  towards 
the  spot  where  his  friends  were  stationed. 

"Pray  attend  to  me,  Mr.  Winkle,  and  never  mind  your  friends,"  said 
Mr.  Skimpin  with  another  expressive  look  at  the  jury.  "They  must 
tell  their  stories  without  any  previous  consultation  with  you,  if  none  has 
yet  taken  place  (another  look  at  the  jury).  Now,  sir,  tell  the  gentlemen 
of  the  jury  what  you  saw  on  entering  the  defendant's  room  on  this  partic- 
ular morning.     Come;  out  with  it,  sir;  w^e  must  have  it  sooner  or  later." 

"The  defendant,  Mr.  Pickwick,  was  holding  the  plaintiff  in  his  arms, 
with  his  hands  clasping  her  waist,"  replied  Mr.  Winkle,  with  natural 
hesitation,  "and  the  plaintiff  appeared  to  have  fainted  away." 

"Did  you  hear  the  defendant  say  anything?" 

"  I  heard  him  call  Mrs.  Bardell  a  good  creature,  and  I  heard  him  ask 
her  to  compose  herself,  for  what  a  situation  it  was  if  anybody  should 
come,  or  words  to  that  effect." 

"Now,  Mr.  Winkle,  I  have  only  one  more  question  to  ask  you,  and 
I  beg  you  to  bear  in  mind  his  lordship's  caution.  Will  you  undertake 
to  swear  that  Pickwick,  the  defendant,  did  not  say  on  the  occasion  in 
question,  '  My  dear  Mrs.  Bardell,  you're  a  good  creature;  compose  your- 
self to  this  situation,  for  to  this  situation  you  must  come,'  or  words  to 
thai  effect?" 

"I — I  didn't  understand  him  so,  certainly."  said  Mr.  Winkle,  as- 
tounded at  this  ingenious  dove-tailing  of  the  few  words  he  had  heard. 
"  I  was  on  the  staircase  and  couldn't  hear  distinctly;  the  impression  on 
my  mind  is — " 

"The  gentlemen  of  the  jury  want  none  of  the  impressions  on  your  mind, 
Mr.  Winkle,  which  I  fear  would  be  of  little  service  to  honest,  straight- 
forward men,"  interposed  Mr.  Skimpin.  "  You  were  on  the  staircase, 
and  didn't  distinctly  hear;  but  you  will  not  swear  that  Pickwick  did  not 
make  use  of  the  expressions  I  have  quoted?    Do  I  understand  that?" 

"No,  I  will  not,"  replied  Mr.  Winkle;  and  down  sat  Mr.  Skimpin 
with  a  triumphant  countenance. 

Susannah  Sanders  was  then  called,  and  examined  by  Serjeant  Buzfuz, 
and  cross-examined  by  Serjeant  Snubbin.    Had  always  said  and  believed 


304       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789  . 

that  Pickwick  would  marry  Mrs.  Bardell;  knew  that  Mrs.  Bardell's  being 
engaged  to  Pickwick  was  tlie  current  topic  of  conversation  in  the  neigh- 
borhood after  the  fainting  in  July;  had  been  told  it  herself  by  Mrs. 
Mudberry,  which  kept  a  mangle,  and  Mrs.  Bunkin,  which  clear-starched, 
but  did  not  see  either  Mrs.  Mudberry  or  Mrs.  Bunkin  in  court.  Had 
heard  Pickwick  ask  the  little  boy  how  he  should  like  to  have  another 
father.  Did  not  know  that  Mrs.  Bardell  was  at  that  time  keeping  com- 
pany with  the  baker,  but  did  know  that  the  baker-  was  then  a  single 
man,  and  is  now  married.  Couldn't  swear  that  Mrs.  Bardell  was  not 
very  fond  of  the  baker,  but  should  think  that  the  baker  was  not  very 
fond  of  Mrs.  Bardell,  or  he  wouldn't  have  married  somebody  else. 
Thought  Mrs.  Bardell  fainted  away  on  the  morning  in  July,  because 
Pickwick  asked  her  to  name  the  day.  Knew  that  she  (witness)  fainted 
away  stone-dead  when  Mr.  Sanders  asked  her  to  name  the  day,  and  be- 
lieved that  everybody  as  called  herself  a  lady  would  do  the  same  under 
similar  circumstances.  Heard  Pickwick  ask  the  boy  the  question  about 
the  marbles,  but  upon  her  oath  did  not  know  the  difference  between  an 
alley  tor  and  a  commoney. 

Serjeant  Buzfuz  now  rose  with  more  importance  than  he  had  ever  ex- 
hibited, if  that  were  possible,  and  vociferated,  "Call  Samuel  Weller." 

It  was  quite  unnecessary  to  call  Samuel  Weller;  for  Samuel  Weller 
stepped  briskly  into  the  box  the  instant  his  name  was  pronounced ;  and, 
placing  his  hat  on  the  floor  and  his  arms  on  the  rail,  took  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  the  bar,  and  a  comprehensive  survey  of  the  bench,  with  a  re- 
markably cheerful  and  lively  aspect. 

"What's  your  name,  sir?"  inquired  the  judge. 

"Sam  Weller,  my  lord,"  replied  that  gentleman. 

"Do  you  spell  it  with  a  '  V  or  a  '  W?'  inquired  the  judge. 

"That  depends  upon  the  taste  and  fancy  of  the  speller,  my  lord," 
replied  Sam.  "I  never  had  occasion  to  spell  it  more  than  once  or 
twice  in  my  life;  but  I  spells  it  with  a  'V.'  " 

Here  a  voice  in  the  gallery  exclaimed  aloud,  "Quite  right  too,  Sam- 
evil, — quite  right.     Put  it  down  a  we,  my  lord,  put  it  down  a  we." 

"Who  is  that,  who  dares  to  address  the  court?"  said  the  little  judge, 
looking  up,     "Usher." 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"Bring  that  person  here  instantly." 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

But  as  the  usher  didn't  find  the  person,  he  didn't  bring  him;  and, 
after  a  great  commotion,  all  the  people  who  had  got  up  to  look  for  the 
culprit  sat  down  again.     The  little  judge  turned  to  the  witness  as  soon 


Prose — Charles  Dickens's.  305 

as  his  indignation  would  allow  him  to  speak,  and  said,  "Do  you  know 
who  that  was,  sir?" 

"I  rayther  suspect  it  was  my  father,  my  lord,"  replied  Sam. 

"Do  you  see  him  here  now?"  said  the  judge. 

"No,  I  don't,  my  lord,"  replied  Sam,  staring  right  up  into  the  lantern 
in  the  roof  of  the  court. 

"If  you  could  have  pointed  him  out,  I  would  have  committed  hiiu 
instantly,"  said  the  judge. 

Sam  bowed  his  acknowledgments,  and  turned  with  unimpaired  cheer- 
fulness of  countenance  towards  Serjeant  Buzfuz. 

"Now,  Mr.  Weller,"  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz. 

"Now,  sir,"  replied  Sam. 

"I  believe  you  are  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  the  defendant  in 
this  case.     Speak  up,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Weller." 

"I  mean  to  speak  up,  sir,"  replied  Sam.  "  I  am  in  the  service  o'  that 
'ere  gen'l'm'n,  and  a  wery  good  service  it  is." 

"Little  to  do,  and  plenty  to  get,  I  suppose?"  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz, 
with  jocularity. 

"O,  quite  enough  to  get,  sir,  as  the  soldier  said  ven  they  ordered 
him  three  hundred  and  fifty  lashes,"  replied  Sam. 

"You  must  not  tell  us  what  the  soldier,  or  any  other  man  said,  sir," 
interposed  the  judge;  "it's  not  evidence." 

"Wery  good,  my  lord,"  replied  Sam. 

"Do  you  recollect  anything  particular  happening  on  the  morning 
when  you  were  first  engaged  by  the  defendant;  eh,  Mr.  Weller?"  said 
Serjeant  Buzfuz. 

"Yes,  I  do,  sir,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  tell  the  jury  what  it  was." 

"1  had  a  reg'lar  new  fit-out  o'  clothes  that  mornin',  gen'l'm'n  of  the 
jury,"  said  Sam;  "and  that  was  a  wery  partickler  and  uncommon  cir- 
cumstance with  me  m  those  days." 

Hereupon  there  was  a  general  laugh;  and  the  little  judge,  looking 
with  an  angry  countenance  over  his  desk,  said,  "You  had  better  be 
careful,  sir." 

"So  Mr.  Pickwick  said  at  the  time,  my  lord,"  replied  Sam;  "and  I 
was  wery  careful  o'  that  'ere  suit  o'  clothes, — wery  careful  indeed,  my 
lord." 

The  judge  looked  sternly  at  Sam  for  full  two  minutes;  but  Sam's 
features  were  so  perfectly  calm  and  serene  that  the  judge  said  nothing, 
and  motioned  Serjeant  Buzfuz  to  proceed. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Weller,"  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz,  folding 


306       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


liis  arms  emphatically,  and  turuing  half  round  to  the  jury,  as  if  in  mute 
assurance  that  he  would  bother  the  witness  yet, — "  do  you  mean  to  tell 
me,  Mr.  Weller.  that  you  saw  nothing  of  this  fainting  on  the  part  of 
the  plaintiff  in  the  arms  of  the  defendant,  which  you  have  heard  de- 
scribed by  the  witnesses?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Sam.  "I  was  in  the  passage  till  they  called 
me  up,  and  then  the  old  lady  was  not  there." 

"  Now,  attend,  Mr.  Weller,"  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz,  dipping  a  large  pen 
into  the  inkstand  before  him,  for  the  purpose  of  frightening  Sam  with 
a  show  of  taking  down  his  answer.  "You  were  in  the  passage,  and  yet 
saw  nothing  of  what  was  going  forward.  Have  you  a  pair  of  eyes, 
Mr.  Weller?" 

"Yes,  I  have  a  pair  of  eyes,"  replied  Sam;  "and  that's  just  it.  If 
they  was  a  pair  o'  patent  double-million  magnify  in'  gas  microscopes 
of  hextra  power,  p'r'aps  I  might  be  able  to  see  through  a  flight  o'  stairs 
and  a  deal  door;  but  bein'  only  eyes,  you  see  my  wision's  limited." 

At  this  answer,  which  was  delivered  without  the  slightest  appearance 
of  irritation,  and  with  the  most  complete  simplicity  and  equanimity  of 
manner,  the  spectators  tittered,  the  little  judge  smiled,  and  Serjeant 
Buzfuz  looked  particularly  foolish.  After  a  short  consultation  with 
Dodson  and  Fogg,  the  learned  Serjeant  ngain  turned  toward  Sam,  and 
said,  with  a  painful  effort  to  conceal  his  vexation,  "Now,  Mr.  Weller, 
I'll  ask  you  a  question  on  another  point,  if  you  please." 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Sam,  with  the  utmost  good- humor. 

"Do  you  remember  going  up  to  Mrs.  Bardell's  house  one  night  in 
November  last?" 

"O,  yes,  wery  well." 

"O,  \o\\  do  remember  that,  Mr.  Weller,"  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz.  re- 
covering his  spirits;  "  I  thought  we  should  get  at  something  at  last." 

"I  rayther  thought  that,  too,  sir,"  replied  Sam;  and  at  this  the  spec- 
tators tittered  again. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  went  up  to  have  a  little  talk  about  this  trial. — 
eh,  Mr.  Weller?"  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz,  looking  knowingly  at  the  jury. 

"  I  went  up  to  pay  the  rent;  but  we  did  get  a  talkin'  about  the  trial," 
replied  Sam. 

"O,  you  did  get  a  talking  about  the  trial,"  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz, 
brightening  up  with  the  anticipation  of  some  important  discovery. 
"Now  what  passed  about  the  trial?  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell 
us,  Mr.  Weller?" 

"  Vith  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  sir,"  replied  Sam.  "  Arter  a  few  un- 
important observations  from  the  two  wirtuous  females  as  has  been  <?x- 


Prose — Philosophical  and  Miscellaneous.    307 

amined  here  to-day,  the  ladies  gets  into  a  wery  great  state  o'  admiration 
at  the  honorable  conduct  of  Mr.  Dodson  and  Fogg, — them  two  gen'l'm'n 
as  is  settin'  near  you  now."  This  of  course  drew  general  attention  to 
Dodson  and  Fogg,  who  looked  as  virtuous  as  possible. 

"  The  attorneys  for  the  plaintiff,"  said  Mr.  Serjeant  Buzfuz.  "Well, 
they  spoke  in  high  praise  of  the  honorable  conduct  of  Messrs.  Dodson 
and  Fogg,  the  attorneys  for  the  plaintiff,  did  they?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  "they  said  what  a  wery  gen'rous  thing  it  was  o' 
them  to  have  taken  up  the  case  on  spec,  and  to  charge  nothin'  at  all  for 
costs,  unless  they  got  'em  out  of  Mr.  Pickwick." 

At  this  very  unexpected  reply  the  spectators  tittered  again,  and  Dod- 
son and  Fogg,  turning  very  red,  leant  over  to  Serjeant  Buzfuz,  and  in 
a  hurried  manner  whispered  something  in  his  ear. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz  aloud,  with  affected 
composure.  "  It's  perfectly  useless,  my  lord,  attempting  to  get  at  any 
evidence  through  the  impenetrable  stupidity  of  this  witness.  I  will  not 
trouble  the  court  by  asking  him  any  more  questions.     Stand  down,  sir." 

"  Would  any  other  gen'l'm'n  like  to  ask  me  anythin'  ?"  inquired  Sam, 
taking  up  his  hat,  and  looking  around  most  deliberately. 

"Not  I,  Mr.  Weller,  thank  you,"  said  Serjeant  Snubbin,  laughing. 

"You  may  go  down,  sir,"  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz,  waving  his  hand 
impatiently.  Sam  went  down  accordingly,  after  doing  Messrs.  Dodson 
and  Fogg's  case  as  much  harm  as  he  conveniently  could,  and  saying 
just  as  little  respecting  Mr.  Pickwick  as  might  be,  which  was  precisely 
the  object  he  had  had  in  view  all  along. 

Lesson  54. 

Philosophical  and  Political  Literatuee.— *'  An  eloquent 
school  of  Scotch  metaphysicians  came  after  Hume,  and,  for 
the  most  part,  opposed  the  ideal  system  on  which  he  had 
founded  his  famous  argument  on  causation.  Dr.  Eeid,  Dr. 
Stewart,  and  Dr.  Brown  carried  this  school  on  to  1820.  The 
Utilitarian  view  of  morals  was  put  forth  with  great  power  by 
Jeremy  Bentham,  and  in  our  own  day  by  JoHiq^  Stuart  Mill, 
1806-1873,  whose  name,  with  that  of  Sir  W.  Hamiltoij^,  1788- 
1856,  and  Professor  Whewell's,  belongs  to  the  literature  of 
philosophy.  The  philosophy  of  Jurisprudence  may  be  said  to 
have  been  founded  by  Jeremy  Bei^^tham,  1748-1832,  and  law 


308        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


was  for  the  first  time  made  a  little  clear  to  common  minds  by 
Blackstojs^e's  Commentaries. 

Burke's  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution,  1790,  and 
the  Letters  on  a  Regicide  Peace,  1796-7,  were  most  powerful. 
The  first  of  these  two  spread  all  over  England  a  terror  of  the 
principles  of  the  Eevolution;  the  second  increased  the  eager- 
ness of  England  to  carry  on  the  war  with  France. 

Miscellaneous  Literatuee.— The  miscellaneous  literature 
of  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century  took  mainly  the 
form  of  long  ess  ys,  most  of  which  were  originally  published  in 
the  Reviews  and  Magazines.  It  was  in  Blachicood^s  Magazine 
that  Christopher  North  (Professor  Wilson)  published  the 
Noctes  Amhrosianm — lively  conversations  that  treated  of  all 
the  topics  of  the  day.  It  was  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  that 
Macaulay  and  Sydney  Smith  and  Jeffrey  wrote  essays  on  litera- 
ture, politics,  and  philosophy.  It  was  in  Frasefs  Magazine 
that  Thomas  Carlyle,  1795-1881,  first  came  before  the  pub- 
lic with  Sartor  Resartus  and  the  Lectures  07i  Heroes,  books 
which  gave  an  entirely  new  impulse  to  the  generation  in  which 
we  live.  Of  all  these  miscellaneous  writers,  Carlyle  was  the 
most  original,  and  Thomas  De  Quincey  the  greatest  writer  of 
English  prose.  The  style  of  De  Quincey,  1785-1859,  has  so 
peculiar  a  quality  that  it  stands  alone.  The  sentences  are  built 
up  like  passages  in  a  fugue,  and  there  is  nothing  in  English 
Literature  which  can  be  compared  in  involved  melody  with  the 
prose  of  the  Co7ifessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater. 

One  man  alone  in  our  own  day  is  as  great  a  master  of  Eng- 
lish prose,  John  Ruskin,  born  in  1819.  He  has  created  a  new 
literature,  that  of  art,  and  all  the  subjects  related  to  it;  and 
the  work  he  has  done  has  more  genius  and  is  more  original  than 
any  other  prose  work  of  our  time.  Some  of  De  Quincey's  best 
work  was  done  on  the  lives  of  the  poets  of  his  day;  and,  indeed, 
a  great  part  of  the  miscellaneous  literature  consisted  of  Criti- 
cism on  Poetry,  past  and  present.  Coleridge,  Charles  Lamb, 
and  Campbell  carried  on  that  study  of  the  Elizabethan  and 


Prose — PMlosopMcal  and  Miscellaneous.     309 

earlier  poetry  which  Warton  had  begun  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  Wordsworth  wrote  admirable  prose  on  poetry,  and 
the  prose  of  his  Essays,  just  now  published,  especially  of  that 
on  the  Cofivention  of  Cintra,  is  quite  stately.  W.  Hazlitt,  W. 
S.  Landor,  Jeffrey,  and  a  host  of  others  added  to  the  literature 
of  criticism,  and  the  ceaseless  discussion  of  the  works  of  the 
poets  made  them  the  foremost  literary  figures  of  the  day." 

Bibliography.  Hamilton.— J.  Veitch's  Memoir  of;  T.  S.  Baynes'  Edinburgh  Es- 
says; De  Quincey's  Essays  on  Ph.  Writers;  H.  Calderwood's  Philos.  of  the  Infinite; 
J.  Martineau's  Essays;  Mill's  Exam,  of  Sir  Wm.  Ham.'s  Philos.;  J.  H.  Stirling's 
Ham.'s  Philos.  of  Perception;  Black.  Mag,,  v.  86, 1859;  N.  A.  Rev. ,  vs.  76,  92,  and  99; 
N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  18,  1852. 

Caklyle.— J.  Morley's  Crit.  Miscellanies;  J.  Martineau's  Essays;  Minto's  Man. 
Eng.  Pr.  Lit.;  Lowell's  My  Study  'Windows;  P.  Bayne's  Lessons  from  my  Masters; 
W.  R.  Greg's  Lit.  Judgments;  J.  Sterling's  Essays;  H.  Giles'  Lectures  and  Essays; 
Fras.  Mag.,  v.  72,  1865;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  132,  1872;  Eel.  Mag  ,  v.  18,  1849;  22,  1851;  26 
and  7,  1852,  and  April  and  June,  1881 ;  Froude's  Life  of. 

De  Quincey.— p.  Bayne's  Essays;  L.  Stephen's  Hours  in  a  Library;  H.  Giles' 
nius.  of  Genius;  Minto's  Man.  Eng.  Pr.  Lit.;  Fras.  Mag.,  vs.  62  and  63;  Nat.  Quar. 
Rev.,  V.  22,  18;i;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v.  14,  1852,  and  88,  1859;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  110,  1861;  Eel. 
Mag.,  July,  1850;  July,  1854;  Dec.,  1863;  and  Oct.,  1868. 

Lamb.— J^Jngr.  Men  of  Let.  Series  ;  Talfourd's  Life  and  Memorials  of;  Bulwer's 
Prose  Works;  De  Quincey's  Biog.,  Essays  and  Lit.  Reminis.;  At.  Mo.,  v.  3. 1859;  Ed. 
Rev.,  V.  124,  1866;  Fras.  Mag.,  v.  75,  1867;  Harper's  Mo.,  vs.  20  and  39;  Macmillan, 
Apr.,  1867;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v.  104,  1867;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  122,  1867:  Temple  Bar,  Apr.,  1862; 
West.  Rev.,  Oct.,  1874. 

"  Carlyle's  subject, — almost  his  only  subject, — whether  he  wrote  his- 
tory or  biography,  or  the  sort  of  musings  which  contained  his  conceptions 
of  life,  was  always  the  dim  struggle  of  man's  nature  with  the  passions, 
doubts,  and  confusions  by  which  it  is  surrounded,  with  special  regard 
to  the  grip  of  the  infinite  spiritual  cravings,  whether  good  or  evil,  upon 
it.  He  was  always  trying  to  paint  the  light  shining  in  darkness  and  the 
darkness  comprehending  it  not,  and  therefore  it  was  that  he  strove  so 
hard  to  invent  a  new  sort  of  style  which  should  express  not  simply  the 
amount  of  human  knowledge  but  also,  so  far  as  possible,  the  much 
vaster  amount  of  human  ignorance  against  which  that  knowledge  spar- 
kled in  mere  radiant  points  breaking  the  gloom. 

Some  critics  have  attempted  to  account  for  the  difference  in  style  be- 
tween his  early  reviews  in  the  Edinhurgh  and  his  later  productions,  by 
the  corrections  of  Jeffrey.  But  Jeffrey  did  not  correct  Carlyle's  Life  of 
Schiller,  and,  if  any  one  who  possesses  the  volume  containing  both  the  life 
of  Schiller  and  the  life  of  Sterling  will  compare  the  one  with  the  other, 
he  will  see  at  once  that,  between  the  two,  Carlyle  had  deliberately  devel- 


310       Literature  of  Period  YIIL^  1789  . 

oped  a  new  organon  for  his  own  characteristic  genius,  and  that,  so  far 
from  losing,  his  genius  gained  enormously  by  the  process.  And  I  say 
this  not  without  fully  recognizing  that  simpUcity  is,  after  all,  the  high- 
est of  all  qualities  of  style,  and  that  no  one  can  pretend  to  find  simplicity 
in  Carlyle's  mature  style. 

The  purpose  of  style  is  to  express  thought,  and  if  the  central  and  per- 
vading thought  of  all  which  you  wish  to  express  and  must  express  if 
you  are  to  attain  the  real  object  of  your  life,  is  inconsistent  with  sim- 
plicity, let  simplicity  go  to  the  wall,  and  let  us  have  the  real  drift.  And 
this  seems  to  me  to  be  exactly  Carlyle's  case.  It  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  express  adequately  in  such  English  as  was  the  English  of  his 
Life  of  Schiller,  the  class  of  convictions  which  had  most  deeply  engraved 
themselves  on  his  own  mind.  That  class  of  convictions  was,  to  state  it 
shortly,  the  result  of  his  belief— a  one-sided  belief  no  doubt,  but  full  of 
significance— that  human  language,  and  especially  our  glib,  cultivated 
use  of  it,  had  done  as  much  or  more  to  conceal  from  men  how  little  they 
do  know,  and  how  ill  they  grasp  even  that  which  they  partly  know,  as 
to  define  and  preserve  for  them  the  little  that  they  have  actually  puzzled 
out  of  the  riddle  of  life. 

To  expose  the  pretensions  of  human  speech,  to  show  us  that  it  seems 
much  clearer  than  it  is,  to  warn  us  habitually  that  '  it  swims  as  a  mere 
superficial  film'  on  a  wide,  unplumbed  sea  of  undiscovered  reality,  is  a 
function  hardly  to  be  discharged  at  all  by  plain  and  limited  speech. 
Genuine  Carlylese — which,  of  course,  in  its  turn  is  in  great  danger  of 
becoming  a  deceptive  mask,  and  often  does  become  so  in  Carlyle's  own 
writings,  so  that  you  begin  to  think  that  all  careful  observation,  sound 
reasoning,  and  precise  thinking  are  useless,  and  that  a  true  man  would 
keep  his  intellect  foaming  and  gasping,  as  it  were,  in  an  eternal  epilep- 
tic fit  of  wonder — is  intended  to  keep  constantly  before  us  the  relative 
proportions  between  the  immensity  on  every  subject  which  we  fail  to 
apprehend,  and  the  few  well-defined  focal  spots  of  light  that  we  can 
clearly  discern  and  take  in.  Nothing  is  so  well  adapted  as  Carlyle's 
style  to  teach  one  that  the  truest  language  on  the  deepest  subjects  is 
thrown  out,  as  it  were,  with  more  or  less  happy  effect,  at  great  realities 
far  above  our  analysis  or  grasp,  and  not  a  triumphant  formula  which 
contains  the  whole  secret  of  our  existence." — Eichard  H.  Button. 

From  Carlyle's  Death  of  Ooethe. 
To  measure  and  estimate  all  this,  as  we  said,  the  time  is  not  come ;  a 
century  hence  will  be  the  fitter  time.     He  who  investigates  it  best  will 
find  its  meaning  greatest,  and  be  the  readiest  to  acknowledge  that  it 


Prose — Carlyle's.  311 


transcends  him.  Let  the  reader  have  seen,  before  he  attempts  to  oversee. 
A  poor  reader,  in  the  mean  while  were  he,  who  discerned  not  here  tlie 
authentic  rudiments  of  that  same  new  era,  whereof  we  have  so  often 
had  false  warning.  Wondrously,  the  wrecks  and  pulverized  rubbish  of 
ancient  things,  institutions,  religions,  forgotten  noblenesses,  made  alive 
again  by  the  breath  of  genius,  lie  here  in  new  coherence  and  incipient 
union,  the  spirit  of  art  working  creative  through  the  mass:  that  chaos, 
into  which  the  eight«enth  century  with  its  wild  war  of  hypocrites  and 
sceptics  had  reduced  the  past,  begins  here  to  be  once  more  a  world. 
This,  the  highest  that  can  be  said  of  written  books,  is  to  be  said  of  these: 
there  is  in  them  a  new  time,  the  prophecy  and  beginning  of  a  new  time 
The  corner-stone  of  a  new  social  edifice  for  mankind  is  laid  there;  firmly, 
as  before,  on  the  natural  rock,  far  extending  traces  of  a  ground-plan  we 
can  also  see,  which  future  centuries  may  go  on  to  enlarge,  amend,  and 
work  into  reality.  These  sayings  seem  strange  to  some;  nevertheless 
they  are  not  empty  exaggerations,  but  expressions,  in  their  way,  of  a 
belief,  whi(jh  is  not  now  of  yesterday;  perhaps  when  Goethe  has  been 
read  and  meditated  for  another  generation,  they  will  not  seem  so 
strange. 

Precious  is  the  new  light  of  knowledge  which  our  teacher  conquers 
for  us;  yet  small  to  the  new  light  of  love  which  also  we  derive  from 
him;  the  most  important  element  of  any  man's  performance  is  the  life 
he  has  accomplished.  Under  the  intellectual  union  of  man  and  man, 
which  works  by  precept,  lies  a  holier  union  of  affection,  working  by 
example;  the  influences  of  which  latter,  mystic,  deep-reaching,  all-em- 
bracing, can  still  less  be  computed.  For  love  is  ever  the  beginning  of 
knowledge,  as  fire  is  of  light;  works  also  more  in  the  manner  of  fire. 
That  Goethe  was  a  great  teacher  of  men  means  already  that  he  was  a 
good  man;  that  he  himself  learned;  in  the  school  of  experience  had 
striven  and  proved  victorious.  To  how  many  hearers  languishing,  nigh 
dead,  in  the  airless  dungeon  of  unbelief  (a  true  vacuum  and  nonentity) 
has  the  assurance  that  there  was  such  a  man,  that  such  a  man  was  still 
possible,  come  like  tidings  of  great  joy !  He  who  would  learn  to  recon- 
cile reverence  with  clearness,  to  deny  and  defy  what  is  false,  yet  believe 
and  worship  what  is  true;  amid  raging  factions,  bent  on  what  is  either 
altogether  empty  or  has  substance  in  it  only  for  a  day,  which  storm- 
fully  convulse  and  tear  hither  and  thither  a  distracted,  expiring  system 
of  society,  to  adjust  himself  aright;  and,  working  for  the  world,  and  in 
the  world,  keep  himself  unspotted  from  the  world— let  him  look  here. 

This  man,  we  may  say,  became  morally  great,  by  being  in  his  own 
age  what  in  some  other  ages  many  might  have  been — a  genuine  man, 


312       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


His  grand  excellency  was  this,  that  he  was  genuine.  As  his  primary 
faculty,  the  foundation  of  all  others,  was  intellect,  depth  and  force  of 
vision,  so  his  primary  virtue  M^as  justice,  was  the  courage  to  be  just.  A 
giant's  strength  we  admired  in  him;  yet,  strength  ennobled  into  softest 
mildness;  even  lilie  that  "silent  rock-bound  strength  of  a  world,"  on 
whose  bosom,  that  rests  on  the  adamant,  grow  flowers.  The  greatest  of 
hearts  was  also  the  bravest;  fearless,  unwearied,  peacefully  invincible. 
A  completed  man;  the  trembling  sensibility,  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  a 
Mignou  can  assort  witli  the  scornful  world-mockery  of  a  Mephistophi- 
les;  and  each  side  of  many-sided  life  receives  its  due  from  him. 

Goethe  reckoned  Schiller  happy  that  he  died  young,  in  the  full  vigor 
of  his  days;  that  he  could  "  figure  him  as  a  youth  forever."  To  himself 
a  different,  higher  destiny  was  appointed.  Through  all  the  changes  of 
man's  life,  onward  to  its  extreme  verge,  he  was  to  go;  and  through 
them  all  nobly.  In  youth,  flatterings  of  fortune,  uninterrupted  outward 
prosperity  cannot  corrupt  him;  a  wise  observer  must  remark,  "  only  a 
Goethe,  at  the  sum  of  earthly  happiness,  can  keep  his  Phoenix  wings 
unsinged."  Through  manhood,  in  the  most  complex  relation,  as  poet, 
courtier,  politician,  man  of  business,  man  of  speculation ;  in  the  middle 
of  revolutions  and  counter-revolutions,  outward  and  spiritual;  with  the 
world  loudly  for  him,  with  the  world  loudly  or  silently  against  him;  in 
all  seasons  and  situations,  he  holds  equally  on  his  w^ay.  Old  age  itself, 
which  is  called  dark  and  feeble,  he  was  to  render  lovely;  who  that  looked 
upon  him  there,  venerable  in  liimself,  and  in  the  world's  reverence,  ever 
the  clearer,  the  purer,  but  could  have  prayed  that  he  too  were  such  an 
old  man?  And  did  not  the  kind  Heavens  continue  kind,  and  grant  to  a 
career  so  glorious  the  worthiest  end? 

Such  was  Goethe's  life;  such  has  his  departure  been — he  sleeps  now 
beside  his  Schiller  and  his  Carl  August;  so  had  the  Prince  willed  it,  that 
between  these  two  should  be  his  own  final  rest.  In  life  they  were  uni- 
ted, in  death  they  are  not  divided.  The  unwearied  workman  now  rests 
from  his  labors;  the  fruit  of  these  is  left  growing  and  to  grow.  His 
earthly  years  have  been  numbered  and  ended;  but  of  his  activity  (for  it 
stood  rooted  in  the  eternal)  there  is  no  end.  All  that  we  mean  by  the 
higher  literature  of  Germany,  which  is  the  higher  literature  of  Europe, 
already  gathers  round  this  man  as  its  creator;  of  which  grand  object, 
dawning  mysterious  on  a  world  that  hoped  not  for  it,  who  is  there  that 
can  assume  the  significance  and  far-reaching  influences?  Tlie  literature 
of  Europe  will  pass  away:  Europe  itself,  the  earth  itself  will  pass  away; 
this  little  life-boat  of  an  earth,  with  its  noisy  crew  of  mankind,  and  all 
their  troubled  history,  will  one  day  have  vanished,  faded  like  a  cloud- 


Prose — Carlyle's.  313 


speck  from  the  azure  of  the  All!  What  then  is  man?  What  then  is 
man?  He  endures  but  for  an  hour,  and  is  crushed  before  the  moth. 
Yet  in  the  being  and  in  the  working  of  a  faithful  man  is  there  already 
(as  all  faith,  from  the  beginning,  gives  assurance)  a  something  that  per- 
lains  not  to  this  wild  death-element  of  time;  that  triumphs  over  time, 
tmd  is,  and  will  be,  when  time  shall  be  no  more. 

And  now  we  turn  back  into  the  world,  withdrawing  from  this  new- 
made  grave.  The  man  whom  we  love  lies  there :  but  glorious,  worthj' ; 
and  his  spirit  yet  lives  in  us  with  an  authentic  life.  Could  each  here 
vow  to  do  his  little  task,  even  as  the  departed  did  his  great  one;  in  the 
manner  of  a  true  man,  not  for  a  day,  but  for  eternity!  To  live,  as  he 
counselled  and  commanded,  not  commodiously  in  the  reputable,  the 
plausible,  the  half,  but  resolutely  in  the  whole,  the  good,  the  true. 

From  Carlyle's  Life  of  Stirling. 

Nothing  could  be  more  copious  than  Coleridge's  talk;  and,  further- 
more, it  was  always,  virtually  or  literally,  of  the  nature  of  a  monologue; 
suffering  no  interruption,  however  reverent;  hastily  putting  aside  all 
foreign  additions,  annotations,  or  most  ingenuous  desires  for  elucida- 
tion, as  well-meant  superfluities  which  would  never  do.  Besides,  it 
was  talk  not  flowing  any  whither  like  a  river;  but  spreading  every 
whither  in  inextricable  currents  and  regurgitations,  like  a  lake  or  sea; 
terribly  deficient  in  definite  goal  or  aim — nay,  often  in  logical  intelli- 
gibility; what  you  were  to  believe  or  do,  on  any  earthly  or  heavenly 
thing,  obstinately  refusing  to  appear  from  it.  So  that,  most  times, 
you  felt  logically  lost;  swamped  near  to  drowning  in  this  tide  of  inge- 
nious vocables,  spreading  out  boundless  as  if  to  submerge  the  world. 

To  sit  as  a  passive  bucket  and  be  pumped  into,  whether  you  consent 
or  not,  can  in  the  long  run  be  exhilarating  to  no  creature,  how  eloquent 
soever  the  flood  of  utterance  that  is  descending.  But  if  it  be  withal  a 
confused,  unintelligible  flood  of  utterance,  threatening  to  submerge  all 
known  landmarks  of  thought,  and  drown  the  world  and  you!  I  have 
heard  Coleridge  talk  with  eager,  musical  energy,  two  stricken  hours, 
his  face  radiant  and  moist,  and  communicate  no  meaning  whatsoever 
to  any  individual  of  his  hearers,— certain  of  whom,  I  for  one,  still  kept 
eagerly  listening  in  hope;  the  most  had  long  before  given  up,  and 
formed  (if  the  room  were  large  enough)  secondary  humming  groups 
of  their  own.  He  began  anywhere;  you  put  some  question  to  him, 
made  some  suggestive  observation.  Instead  of  answering  this,  or  de- 
cidedly setting  out  towards  answer  of  it,  he  would  accumulate  for- 
midable apparatus,  logical  swim-bladders,  transcendental  life-preserv- 


314        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


ers,  and  other  precautionary  and  veliiculatory  gear,  for  setting  out; 
perhaps  did  at  last  get  under  way,  but  was  swiftly  solicited,  turned 
aside  by  the  glance  of  some  radiant  new  game  on  this  hand  or  that,  into 
new  courses,  and  ever  into  new,  and  before  long  into  all  the  Universe, 
where  it  was  uncertain  what  game  you  would  catch,  or  whether  any. 

His  talk,  also,  was  distinguished,  like  himself,  by  irresolution;  it 
disliked  to  be  troubled  with  conditions,  abstinences,  definite  fulfilments; 
loved  to  wander  at  its  own  sweet  will,  and  make  its  auditor  and  his 
claims  and  humble  wishes  a  mere  passive  bucket  for  itself!  He  had 
knowledge  about  many  things  and  topics,  much  curious  reading;  but 
generally  all  topics  led  him,  after  a  pass  or  two,  into  the  high-seas  of 
theosophic  philosophy,  the  hazy  infinitude  of  Kantian  transcendental- 
ism, with  its  "sum-m-mjects"  and  "  om-m-mjects."  Sad  enough;  for 
with  such  indolent  impatience  of  the  claims  and  ignorances  of  others,  he 
had  not  the  least  talent  for  explaining  this  or  anything  unknown  to 
them,  and  you  swam  and  fluttered  in  the  mistiest,  wide,  unintelligible 
deluge  of  things,  for  most  part  in  a  rather  profitless,  uncomfortable 
manner.  Glorious  islets,  too,  I  have  seen  rise  out  of  the  haze;  but  they 
were  few,  and  soon  swallowed  in  the  general  element  again.  Balmy, 
sunny  islets,  islets  of  the  blessed  and  the  intelligible; — on  which  occa- 
sions those  secondary  humming  groups  would  all  cease  humming,  and 
hang  breathless  upon  the  eloquent  words;  till  once  your  islet  got  wrapt 
in  the  mist  again,  and  they  would  recommence  humming.  Eloquent, 
artistically  expressive  words  you  always  had;  piercing  radiances  of  a 
most  subtle  insight  came  at  intervals;  tones  of. noble,  pious  sympathy, 
recognizable  as  pious,  though  strangely  colored,  were  never  wanting 
long;  but,  in  general,  you  could  not  call  this  aimless,  cloud-capt,  cloud- 
based,  lawlessly  meandering  human  discourse  of  reason  by  the  name  of 
excellent  talk,  but  only  of  "surprising;"  and  were  reminded  bitterly  of 
Hazlitt's  account  of  it,  "Excellent  talker,  very — if  you  let  him  start 
from  no  premises  and  come  to  no  conclusion." 

Coleridge  was  not  without  what  talkers  call  wit,  and  there  were 
touches  of  prickly  sarcasm  in  him,  contemptuous  enough  of  the  world 
and  its  idols  and  popular  dignitaries;  he  had  traits  even  of  poetic 
humor;  but,  in  general,  he  seemed  deficient  in  laughter,  or  indeed  in 
sympathy  for  concrete  human  things  either  on  the  sunny  or  on  the 
stormy  side.  One  right  peal  of  concrete  laughter  at  some  convicted 
flesh-and-blood  absurdity,  one  burst  of  noble  indignation  at  some  injus- 
tice or  depravity,  rubbing  elbows  with  us  on  this  solid  Earth — how 
strange  would  it  have  been  in  that  Kantian  haze  world,  and  how  in- 
finitely cheering  amid  its  vacant  air-castles  and  dim-melting  ghosts  and 


Prose — De  Quincey's,  315 

shadows!  None  such  ever  came.  His  life  had  been  an  abstract  thinking 
and  dreaming,  idealistic,  passed  amid  the  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies  and 
of  unborn  ones.  The  moaning  sing-song  of  that  tlieosophic  and  meta- 
physical monotony  left  on  you  at  last  a  very  dreary  feeling. 

The  constant  gist  of  his  discourse  was  lamentation  over  the  sunk  con- 
dition of  the  world,  which  he  recognized  to  be  given  up  to  atheism  and 
materialism,  full  of  mere  sordid  misbeliefs,  mispursuits,  and  misresults. 
All  science  had  become  mechanical ;  the  science  not  of  men,  but  of  a 
kind  of  human  beavers.  Churches  themselves  had  died  away  into  a 
godless,  mechanical  condition,  and  stood  there  as  mere  cases  of  articles, 
mere  forms  of  churches;  like  the  dried  carcasses  of  once  swift  camels, 
which  you  find  left  withering  in  the  thirst  of  the  universal  desert, — 
ghastly  portents  for  the  present,  beneficent  ships  of  the  desert  no  more. 
Men's  souls  were  blinded,  hebetated,  sunk  under  the  influence  of  atheism 
and  materialism,  and  Hume  and  Voltaire :  the  world  for  the  present  was 
as  an  extinct  world,  deserted  of  God,  and  incapable  of  well-doing  till  it 
changed  its  heart  and  spirit.  This,  expressed,  I  think,  with  less  of 
indignation  and  with  more  of  long  drawn  querulousness,  was  always 
recognizable  as  the  ground-tone. 

De  Quincey.— "De  Quincey  ranges  with  great  freedom  over  the  accu- 
mulated wealth  of  the  language,  his  capacious  memory  giving  him  a 
prodigious  command  of  words.  His  range  is  perhaps  wider  than  Ma- 
caulay's  or  Carlyle's,  as  he  is  more  versatile  in  the  pitch  of  his  style,  and 
does  not  disdain  to  use  the  slang  of  all  classes,  from  Cockney  to  Oxonian. 

In  his  diction,  taken  as  a  whole,  there  is  a  great  preponderance  of 
words  derived  from  the  Latin.  Lord  Brougham's  opinion,  that  '  the 
Saxon  part  of  our  English  idiom  is  to  be  favored  at  the  expense  of  that 
part  which  has  so  happily  coalesced  from  the  Latin  and  Greek,'  he  puts 
aside  as  *  resembling  that  restraint  wliicii  some  metrical  writers  have 
imposed  upon  themselves — of  writing  a  long  copy  of  verses  from  which 
some  particular  letter,  or  from  each  line  of  which  some  different  letter, 
should  be  carefully  excluded.'  From  various  causes  he  himself  makes 
an  excessive  use  of  Latinized  phraseology.  First,  his  ear  was  deeply 
enamoured  of  a  dignified  rhythm;  none  but  long  words  of  Latin  origin 
were  equal  to  the  lofty  march  of  his  periods.  Secondly,  by  the  use  of 
Latinized  and  quad  technical  terms,  he  gained  greater  precision  than 
by  the  use  of  homely  words  of  looser  signification.  And,  thirdly,  it  was 
part  of  his  peculiar  humor  to  write  concerning  common  objects  in  unfa- 
miliar language. 

Although  De  Quincey  complained  of  the  *  weariness  and  repulsion ' 


316       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


of  the  periodic  style,  he  carried  it  to  excess  in  his  own  composition. 
His  sentences  are  stately,  elaborate,  and  crowded  with  qualifying  clauses 
and  parenthetical  allusions  to  a  degree  unparalleled  among  modern  writ- 
ers. He  maintained,  and  justly,  that  '  stateliness  the  most  elaborate, 
in  an  absolute  sense,  is  no  fault  at  all,  though  it  may  be  so  in  relation  to 
a  given  subject,  or  to  any  subject  under  given  circumstances.'  Whether 
in  his  own  practice  he  always  conforms  to  circumstances  is  a  question 
that  must  be  left  to  individual  taste.  There  is  a  certain  stateliness  in 
his  sentences  under  almost  all  circumstances — a  stateliness  arising  from 
his  habitual  use  of  periodic  suspensions. 

Explicitness  of  connection  is  the  chief  merit  of  De  Quincey's  para- 
graphs. He  cannot  be  said  to  observe  any  other  principle.  He  is 
carried  into  violations  of  all  the  other  rules  by  his  inveterate  habit  of 
digression.  Often,  upon  a  mere  casual  suggestion,  he  branches  off  into 
a  digression  of  several  pages,  sometimes  even  digressing  from  the  sub- 
ject of  his  first  digression.  The  enormity  of  these  offences  is  a  good 
deal  palliated  by  his  being  conscious  that  he  is  digi-essing,  and  his  taking 
care  to  let  us  know  when  he  strikes  off  from  the  main  subject  and  when 
he  returns. 

The  melody  of  De  Quincey's  prose  is  pre-eminently  rich  and  stately. 
He  takes  rank  with  Milton  as  one  of  our  greatest  masters  of  stately 
cadence  as  well  as  of  sublime  composition.  If  one  may  trust  one's  ear 
for  a  general  impression,  Milton's  melody  is  sweeter  and  more  varied; 
but,  for  magnificent  effects,  at  least  in  prose,  the  palm  must  probably 
be  assigned  to  De  Quincey,  In  some  of  his  grandest  passages  the  lan- 
guage can  be  compared  only  to  the  swell  and  crash  of  an  orchestra." — 
William  Minto. 

From  De  Quincey's  Essay  on  Style. 
There  were  two  groups,  or  clusters,  of  Grecian  wits — two  depositions, 
or  stratifications,  of 'the  national  genius;  and  these  were  about  a  century 
apart.  What  makes  them  specially  rememberable  is  the  fact  that  each 
of  these  brilliant  clusters  had  gathered  separately  about  that  man  as  cen- 
tral pivot  who,  even  apart  from  this  relation  to  the  literature,  was  other- 
wise the  leading  spirit  of  his  age.  It  is  important  for  our  purpose  to 
notice  the  distinguishing  character,  or  marks,  by  which  the  two  clusters 
are  separately  recognized — the  marks  both  personal  and  chronological. 
As  to  the  personal  distinctions,  we  have  said  that  in  each  case  severally 
the  two  men  who  offered  the  nucleus  to  the  gathering  happened  to  be 
otherwise  the  most  eminent  and  splendid  men  of  the  period.  Who  were 
they?    The  one  was  Pericles,  the  other  was  Alexander  of  Macedon. 


Prose — De  Quincey' s.  517 


Except  Themistocles,  who  may  be  ranked  as  senior  to  Pericles  by  just 
one  generation,  in  the  whole  deduction  of  Grecian  annals  no  other  pub- 
lic man,  statesman,  captain-general,  administrator  of  the  national  re- 
sources can  be  mentioned  as  approaching  to  these  two  men  in  splendor 
of  reputation  or  even  in  real  merit. 

Thus  far  our  purpose  prospers.  No  man  can  pretend  to  forget  two 
such  centres  as  Pericles  for  the  elder  group,  or  Alexander  of  Macedon, 
"  the  strong  he- goat"  of  Jewish  prophecy,  for  the  junior.  Round  these 
two  foci,  in  two  different  but  adjacent  centuries  gathered  the  total  star- 
ry heavens,  the  galaxy,  the  Pantheon,  of  Grecian  intellect.  All  that 
Greece  produced  of  awful  solemnity  in  her  tragic  stage,  of  riotous  mirth 
and  fancy  in  her  comic  stage,  of  power  in  her  eloquence,  of  wisdom  in 
her  philosophy;  all  that  has  since  tingled  in  the  ears  of  twenty-four  cen- 
turies, of  her  prosperity  in  the  arts,  her  sculpture,  her  architecture,  her 
painting,  her  music — everything,  in  short,  excepting  only  her  higher 
mathematics,  which  waited  for  a  further  development,  which  required 
the  incubation  of  the  musing  intellect  for  yet  another  century,  revolved, 
like  two  neighboring  planetary  systems,  about  these  two  solar  orbs. 
Two  mighty  vortices,  Pericles  and  Alexander  the  Great,  drew  into 
strong  eddies  about  themselves  all  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of  Greek  lit- 
erature, Greek  eloquence,  Greek  wisdom,  Greek  art. 

Next,  that  we  may  still  more  severely  search  the  relations  in  all  points 
between  the  two  systems,  let  us  assign  the  chronological  locus  of  each, 
because  that  will  furnish  another  element  towards  the  exact  distribution 
of  the  chart  representing  the  motion  and  the  oscillations  of  human 
genius.  Pericles  had  a  very  long  administration.  He  was  Prime  Min- 
ister of  Athens  for  upwards  of  one  entire  generation.  He  died  in  the 
year  429  B.C.,  and  in  a  very  early  stage  of  that  great  Peloponnesian  war, 
which  was  the  one  sole  intestine  war  for  Greece,  affecting  every  nook 
and  angle  in  the  land.  Now,  in  this  long  public  life  of  Pericles,  we  are 
at  liberty  to  fix  on  any  year  as  his  chronological  locus.  On  good  reasons, 
not  called  for  in  this  place,  we  fix  on  the  year  444.  This  is  too  remark- 
able to  be  forgotten.  Four,  four,  four,  what  at  some  games  of  cards  is 
called  a  prial,  forms  an  era  which  no  man  can  forget.  It  was  the  fifteenth 
year  before  the  death  of  Pericles,  and  not  far  from  the  bisecting  year  of 
his  political  life.  Now,  passing  to  the  other  system,  the  locus  of  Alexan- 
der is  quite  as  remarkable,  as  little  liable  to  be  forgotten  when  once  in- 
dicated, and  more  easily  determined,  because  selected  from  a  narrower 
range  of  choice.  The  exact  chronological  locus  of  Alexander  the  Great 
is  333  B.C.  Everybody  knows  how  brief  was  the  career  of  this  great 
man,  it  terminated  in  the  year  320.     But  the  annus  mirabilis  of  his  pub- 


318        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


lie  life,  tlie  most  effective  and  productive  year  throughout  his  oriental 
anabasis,  was  the  year  333  before  Christ.  Here  we  have  another  prial, 
a  prial  of  threes,  for  the  locus  of  Alexander.  Thus  far  the  elements  are 
settled,  the  chronological  longitude  and  latitude  of  the  two  great  planet- 
ary systems  into  which  the  Greek  literature  breaks  up  and  distributes 
itself:  444  and  333  are  the  two  central  years  for  the  two  systems,  allow- 
ing, therefore,  an  interspace  of  111  years  between  their /m. 

And  next,  we  request  the  reader  thoughtfully  to  consider  who  they  are 
of  whom  the  elder  system  is  composed.  In  the  centre,  as  we  have  al- 
ready explained,  is  Pericles,  the  great  practical  statesman,  and  that  ora- 
tor of  whom  (amongst  so  many  that  vibrated  thunderbolts)  it  was  said 
peculiarly  that  he  thundered  and  lightened  as  if  he  held  this  Jovian  at- 
tribute by  some  individual  title.  Passing  onwards  from  Pericles,  5^ou 
find  that  all  the  rest  in  Ms  system  were  men  in  the  highest  sense  crea- 
tive; absolutely  setting  the  very  first  examples,  each  in  his  peculiar  walk 
of  composition;  themselves  without  previous  models,  and  yet  destined, 
every  man  of  them,  to  become  models  for  all  after-generations ;  them- 
selves without  fathers  or  mothers,  and  yet  having  all  posterity  for  their 
children.  First  come  the  three  men,  dwini  spiritus,  under  a  heavenly 
afflatus,  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  Euripides,  the  creators  of  tragedy  out  of 
a  village  mummery.  Next  comes  Aristophanes,  who  breathed  the 
breath  of  life  into  comedy.  Then  comes  the  great  philosopher,  Anax- 
agoras,  who  first  theorized  successfully  upon  man  and  the  world.  Next 
come,  whether  great  or  not,  the  still  more  famous  philosophers,  Socrates, 
Plato,  Xenophon.  Then  comes,  leaning  upon  Pericles,  as  sometimes 
Pericles  leaned  upon  him,  the  divine  artist,  Phidias;  and  behind  this 
immortal  man  walk  Herodotus  and  Thucydides.  What  a  procession  to 
Eleusis  would  these  men  have  formed!  What  a  frieze,  if  some  great 
artist  could  arrange  it  as  dramatically  as  Chaucer  has  arranged  the  Pil- 
gnmage  to  Canterbury  ! 

Now,  let  us  step  on  a  hundred  years  forward.  We  are  now  within 
hail  of  Alexander;  and  a  brilliant  consistory  of  Grecian  men  that  is  by 
which  he  is  surrounded.  There  are  now  exquisite  masters  of  the  more 
refined  comedy;  there  are,  again,  great  philosophers,  for  all  the  great 
schools  are  represented  by  able  successors;  and,  above  all  others,  there 
is  the  one  philosopher  who  played  with  men's  minds,  according  to 
Lord  Bacon's  comparison,  as  freely  as  ever  his  princely  pupil  with 
their  persons — there  is  Aristotle.  There  are  great  orators,  and,  above 
all  others,  there  is  that  orator  whom  succeeding  generations,  wisely  or 
not,  have  adopted  as  the  representative  name  for  what  is  conceivable  in 
oratorical  perfection — there  is  Demosthenes.     Aristotle  and  Demosthe- 


Prose — De  Quincey's.  319 

nes  are  iu  themselves  bulwarks  of  power,  many  hosts  lie  iu  these  two 
names.  For  artists,  again,  to  range  against  Phidias,  there  is  Lysippus, 
the  sculptor,  and  there  is  Apelles,  the  painter.  For  great  captains  and 
masters  of  strategic  art,  there  is  Alexander  himself,  with  a  glittering 
cortege  of  general  officers,  well  qualified  to  wear  the  crowns  which  they 
will  win,  and  to  head  the  dynasties  which  they  will  found.  Historians 
there  are  now  as  in  that  former  age.  And,  upon  the  whole,  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  the  "turn-out"  is  showy  and  imposing. 

Here,  reader,  we  would  wish  to  put  a  question.  Saving  your  presence, 
did  you  ever  see  what  is  called  a  dumb-bell?  We  have,  and  know  it  by 
more  painful  evidence  than  that  of  sight.  You,  therefore,  O  reader,  if 
personally  cognizant  of  dumb-bells,  we  shall  remind,  if  not,  we  shall  in- 
form, that  it  is  a  cylindrical  bar  of  iron,  issuing  at  each  end  in  a  globe  of 
the  same  metal,  and  usually  it  is  sheathed  in  green  baize;  but  perfidiously 
so,  if  that  covering  is  meant  to  deny  or  to  conceal  the  fact  of  those  heart- 
rending thumps  which  it  inflicts  upon  one's  too  confiding  fingers  every 
third  ictus.  Now,  reader,  it  is  under  this  image  of  the  dumb  bell  we 
couch  an  allegory.  Those  globes  at  each  end  are  the  two  systems,  or 
separate  clusters,  of  Greek  literature;  and  that  cylinder  which  connects 
them  is  the  long  man  that  ran  into  each  system,  binding  the  two  to- 
gether. Who  was  that?  It  was  Isocrates.  Great  we  cannot  call  him 
in  conscience;  and,  therefore,  by  way  of  compromise,  we  call  him  long, 
which,  in  one  sense,  he  certainly  was,  for  he  lived  through  four  and 
twenty  Olympiads,  each  containing  four  solar  years.  He  narrowly  es- 
caped being  a  hundred  years  old ;  and,  though  that  did  not  carry  him 
from  centre  to  centre,  yet,  as  each  system  might  be  supposed  to  portend 
a  radius  each  way  of  twenty  years,  he  had,  in  fact,  a  full  personal  cog- 
nizance of  the  two  systems,  remote  as  they  weve,  which  composed  the 
total  world  of  Grecian  genius.  It  is  for  this  quality  of  length  that  Mil- 
ton honors  him  with  a  touching  memorial;  for  Isocrates  was  "that  old 
man  eloquent "  of  Milton's  sonnet,  whom  the  battle  of  Chaeronea,  "fatal 
to  liberty,  killed  with  report." 


820       Literature  of  Period  VIII,,  1789 


Lesson  55. 

Ameeican  Liteeature.— The  Law  of  Colonies.— Trans- 
planting a  tree  is  often  at  the  risk  of  its  life.  Some  of  the 
larger  roots  are  destroyed  in  the  removal,  and  innumerable 
rootlets  are  injured.  With  many  of  the  parts  which  nour- 
ished it  wanting,  and  with  what  remains  impaired,  the  tree 
cannot  instantly  adapt  itself  to  its  strange  surroundings. 
Before  it  can  derive  life  from  its  new  environment,  the  stock 
of  it  which  it  has  accumulated  is  largely  drawn  upon,  perhaps 
exhausted,  and  the  experiment  proves  fatal  to  the  tree. 

The  first  movement  of  a  i^eople,  taken  up,  however  care- 
fully, from  its  old  home  and  set  down  in  a  new,  must  be  a 
step  backward.  The  sunderings  of  its  old  relations  is  a 
wrench  that  leaves  the  colony  weak.  The  difficulties  that 
confront  it  and  the  dangers  that  menace  it  are  multiplied; 
while  to  it  in  its  enfeebled  condition  each  mole-hill  seems  and 
is  a  mountain.  These  difficulties  and  dangers  are  strange  to 
it — its  previous  experience  has  not  taught  it  how  to  meet  and 
master  them.  Its  energies,  hitherto  employed  in  continuing 
a  life  transmitted  to  it,  must  now  be  spent  in  beginning  one. 
It  must  get  a  footing  for  itself  in  the  new  region,  must  wrest 
land  from  its  owners  or  purchase  it,  and  subdue  it  by  cultiva- 
tion. It  must  build  houses,  construct  implements,  accumu- 
late necessities,  and  create  and  set  going  the  manifold  ma- 
chinery of  life,  domestic,  social,  religious,  and  political.  Is 
it  any  wonder  that  with  so  much  more  to  do  than  it  had 
before,  and  with  less  strength  to  do  it  with,  we  should  every- 
where detect  retrogression  in  the  life  of  the  transplanted 
people?  Need  we  wonder,  indeed,  if  their  civilization  does 
not  stop  short  of  barbarism  in  its  decline,  and  they  of  extinc- 
tion? 

The  Planting  of  the  Ameeican  Colonies.— In  addition  to 
the  disabilities  which  colonies  ordinarily  suffer  and  the  diffi- 


American  Literature — Colonial.  821 

culties  they  encounter,  the  American  colonists  experienced 
some  that  were  extraordinary.  They  did  not  swarm  out  from 
the  old  hive  because  the  home  quarters  were  crowded.  They 
left,  because  they  had  reached  convictions  and  were  striving 
after  ideals  with  which  the  mother  had  no  sympathy,  and  to 
which  she  gave  no  hospitality;  for  the  world  had  not  yet 
learned  to  tolerate  what  it  did  not  approve.  She  subjected 
them  to  a  discipline  unloving  and  unnatural.  They  were 
made  to  feel  that  they  were  no  longer  welcome  about  the  old 
hearth,  and  at  last.were  driven  forth  into  the  wilderness  with- 
out the  loaf  of  bread  and  the  bottle  of  water  which  even 
the  bond-woman  and  the  child  Ishmael  received.  Not  the 
mother's  care  but  her  oppressions  planted  them  in  America, 
It  was  afterwards  confessed,  and  we  can  easily  believe  it. 

The  climate  in  which  many  of  them  found  themselves  here 
was  inhospitable,  unlike  that  they  had  left.  The  land  was 
covered  with  dense  forests,  which  had  to  be  cleared  before 
bread  could  be  obtained;  and,  when  subdued,  the  sterile  soil 
was  niggard  in  its  returns.  Human  foes  pressed  in  upon  the 
settlements  all  along  the  coast.  The  Indians  were  a  constant 
terror,  appearing  when  least  expected,  ravaging  and  killing, 
and  disappearing  as  silently  and  as  mysteriously  as  they  came. 

If  ever  the  mother's  heart  softened,  and  a  wish  entered  it 
to  atone  for  her  harshness,  the  child  never  knew  it.  But  if 
her  love  did  not  cross  the  three  thousand  miles  of  water 
that  rolled  between  parent  and  son,  her  authority  did.  She 
must  rule  the  boy  even  in  the  strange  land  to  which  she  had 
driven  him.  And  so,  while  the  exiles  were  groping  here 
after  a  freedom  denied  them  at  home,  a  freedom  like  that  for 
which  the  Puritans  were  contending  before  and  during  the 
Commonwealth,  but  broader  than  any  one  there,  except  per- 
haps Milton,  understood,  the  mother's  repressive  purpose  was 
seen  and  her  iron  hand  was  felt.  Upon  those  who  grew 
restive  under  the  Stamp  Act  and  the  Tea  Tax  and  the  Boston 
Port  Bill  and  the  Restraining  Acts  and  the  Military  Act  she 


X'- 


322       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


imposed,  in  her  Kegulation,  or  Reconstruction,  Acts,  a  regimen 
subversive  of  English  traditions — a  regimen  unknown  at 
home,  or,  if  not  unknown,  one  ^*from  which  British  nobles 
and  commons  had  long  before  fought  out  their  exemption. 
These  acts,  radical  and  revolutionary,  went  to  the  founda- 
tions of  our  public  system,  and  sought  to  reconstruct  it  from 
the  base  on  a  theory  of  parliamentary  omnipotence  and  kingly 
sovereignty."  It  was  not  our  fathers  who  were  the  revolu- 
tionists, it  was  the  king  and  the  parliament.  The  child  was 
striving  to  uphold  existing  institutions,  the  mother  was  seek- 
ing to  overthrow  them.  Such  treatment  it  was  that  drove 
the  boy,  before  he  had  come  of  age  and  his  gristle  had  hard- 
ened into  bone,  into  antagonism  and  then  into  open  collision, 
by  which  he  reached  his  majority,  and  his  independence  of 
maternal  guidance  was  achieved . 

And  then  came  those  other  extraordinary  difficulties  en- 
countered in  organizing  and  carrying  on  a  new  government — 
a  government  f»or  constructing  which  the  England  they  had 
left  furnished  few  precedents,  as  did,  indeed,  every  other 
nation  of  modern  times  or  of  ancient. 

Those  who  reproach  us  for  our  scanty  literature,  and  for  our 
stunted  growth  in  everything  but  industrial  energy  and  mate- 
rial prosperity  do  not  always  take  these  extraordinary  obsta- 
cles into  account.  They  overlook  the  fact  that  by  these 
much  of  the  progress  we  might  have  made  has  been  prevented; 
that  not  all  even  of  the  few  years  of  our  life  here  should  be 
counted.  We  could  not  start  out  from  the  point  which  the 
English  people,  and  our  fathers  with  them,  had  reached,  and 
run  on  side  by  side  with  them.  By  the  ordinary  obstructions 
of  colonial  life,  but  still  more  by  the  extraordinary  impedi- 
ments peculiar  to  ourselves,  we  were  set  back  near  the  goal  of 
starting,  and  were  handicapped  for  the  race. 

The  Eelation  of  Liteeatuee  to  the  Nation.— The  people 
modify,  though  they  do  not  make,  the  literature.  If  not  the 
thinkers,  they  are  the  soil  out  of  which  the  thinkers  spring; 


American  Literature — Colonial.  323 

if  they  do  not  immediately  produce  the  literature,  they  nour- 
ish those  who  do.  This  relation,  natural  and  always  existing, 
is  especially  noticeable  now.  Less  than  ever  before  are  writers 
a  class,  living  apart  and  aloof  from  the  rest  of  the  nation. 
No  healthful  literature,  prose  or  poetry,  can  come  from  those 
who  are  indifferent  to  others,  cut  off  from  the  general  move- 
ment of  their  generation;  and  none  is  now  attempted.  There 
is  such  a  community  of  interests  between  those  who  write  and 
those  who  do  not,  each  party  giving  and  taking,  acting  and 
acted  upon,  that  no  lines  of  cleavage  between  them  can  be 
traced.  The  writer  is  a  teacher;  the  lessons  he  teaches  must 
be  such,  in  subject  and  in  treatment,  as  his  pupils  will  study. 
The  topics  he  selects  must  be  such  as  the  needs  of  the  people 
force  upon  him,  and  the  handling  must  interest  them.  His 
very  words  must  be  those  which  have  "  sucked  up  the  feeding 
juices  secreted  for  them  in  the  rich  mother-earth  of  common 
folk."  His  highest  inspiration  must  come  from  close  contact 
with  the  people;  he  must  have  been  drawn,  in  some  measure, 
into  the  current  of  his  times,  must  be  in  it  and  of  it  in  order 
to  direct  it. 

**  In  order  that  an  organism — plant  or  animal — should  exist 
at  all,  there  must  be  a  certain  correspondence  between  the 
organism  and  its  environment,"  says  Professor  Dowden. 
We  do  not  look  in  vain  into  a  nation's  literature  to  see  what 
the  national  spirit  is,  what  the  surroundings,  attainments, 
^nd  limitations  of  the  people  are.  How,  for  example,  the  in- 
sular position  of  England  and  the  self-centred  and  intense 
home  life  of  her  people  color  her  literature!  How  a  great  war, 
civil  or  national,  gives  a  martial  cast  to  the  thought  and  the 
style  of  the  period !  How  a  great  popular  movement  in  taste, 
in  politics,  in  religion,  voiced,  if  not  initiated,  by  the  literary 
men  but  speedily  escaping  their  control  it  may  be,  gives  a 
trend  to  the  literature  of  the  times,  and  regulates  the  width 
and  depth  of  the  current!  Study  carefully  a  great  author, 
then,  and  you  will  read  more  than  he  is  conscious  of  saying; 


8^4       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


he  speaks  only  for  himself,  he  supposes;  but,  in  reality,  his 
generation  of  countrymen  speak  through  him,  and  all  the 
more  truly  because  he  is  not  cognizant  of  it. 

American  LiTERATUEE  of  the  Seventeenth  Century.— 
1.  Our  first  writers  were  the  early  colonists  themselves,  men 
born  and  bred  in  England,  and  commg  here  and  settling 
Virginia  and  Massachusetts. 

2.  Their  education  and  their  training  in  literature  were 
such  as  Englishmen  at  that  time  were  receiving.  These  first 
colonies  were  planted  during  the  reign  of  the  first  Stuart — of 
him  who  "stood  out  in  grotesque  contrast"  with  his  prede- 
cessors, and  so  violently  *' jarred  against  the  conception  of 
an  English  ruler  which  had  grown  up  under  the  Tudors." 
Subsequent  colonizations  took  place  under  his  Stuart  succes- 
sors. More  despicable  sovereigns  than  the  Stuarts  never  sat 
on  the  English  throne.  Theirs  was  the  age  when,  says 
the  historian  Green,  *'  two  theories,  which  contained  within 
them  the  seeds  of  a  death-struggle  between  the  people  and 
the  crown,  the  divine  right  of  kings  and  the  divine  right  of 
bishops,"  were  insisted  on — an  age  of  prerogative  and  of  per- 
secution. Education  was  mainly  in  clerical  hands,  and  liter- 
ature was  controlled  by  clerical  licensers,  mere  creatures  of 
the  crown.  Whether  even  Paradise  Lost  should  see  the  light 
depended  upon  the  gracious  permission  of  a  youthful  prig, 
wearing  the  gown,  and  appointed  to  this  post  of  licenser  by  the 
primate  of  England.  Under  such  men,  bound  to  a  minute 
and  definite  system  of  doctrine,  to  join  whose  ranks,  says  Mil- 
ton, was  to  write  one's  self  slave,  all  intellectual  culture  was 
fettered,  as  was  civil  liberty  by  the  royal  prerogative.  The 
early  colonists  were  men  cramped  and  stunted  by  this  tyranny, 
civil  and  ecclesiastical;  and  those  at  least  who  came  to  New 
England  were  men  chafing  under  these  restrictions.  The 
literature  produced  by  them  must  bear,  branded  upon  it, 
marks  of  such  discipline. 


American  Literature  of  the  \ltli  Century.    325 

3.  *  The  surroundings  of  these  men  here  did  much  to  shape 
what  they  wrote.  Those  peopling  Virginia  were  largely  of 
the  cavalier  element.  The  ideal  of  life  which  they  strove  to 
realize  was  that  of  the  county  squire  of  England.  They 
dwelt  apart  from  each  other  on  large  estates.  The  religion 
was  that  of  the  Church  of  England."  The  governors  did  not 
favor  general  education,  and  the  separation  of  colonist  from 
colonist  caused  its  neglect.  Sir  Wm.  Berkeley  thanked  God 
that  there  were  no  free  schools  in  Virginia;  for  learning,  he 
thought,  had  brought  disobedience  and  heresy  and  sects  into 
the  world,  and  printing  had  developed  them.  No  record  ex- 
ists of  a  printing-press  in  Virginia  before  1681.  The  govern- 
ment was  not  tolerant  of  Quakers,  Baptists,  Moravians,  or 
Methodists. 

The  early  New  England  colonists  were  Puritan  dissenters. 
They  believed  in  the  right  to  think  for  themselves  in  matters 
religious  and  political,  and  came  here  that  they  might  do  it 
without  restraint.  They  believed  in  universal  education,  and 
by  1649  public  instruction  was  compulsory  in  nearly  every 
colony.  Among  these  people  there  was  a  liberal  sprinkling  of 
graduates  from  Oxford  and  from  Cambridge.  The  men  who 
in  culture  rose  above  all  others  were  the  clergy;  it  was  in  the 
service  of  religion  that  the  intellect  of  the  people  was  enlisted. 
Politics  was  but  a  department  of  theology,  and  in  some  places 
citizenship  defended  upon  certain  church  relations.  The 
clergy,  who  l^d  in  everything,  were  men  who  by  their  wisdom 
and  by  the  purity  of  their  lives  deserved  to  lead.  But  they 
could  not  completely  emancipate  themselves  from  traditions 
and  the  influence  of  early  training,  or  fail  to  take  damage 
from  the  exalted  positions  into  which  they  were  here  suddenly 
thrust.     They  became  intolerant  of  all  who  did  not  agree  with 


*  For  many  of  the  facts  in  this  account  of  our  early  literature,  we  are  greatly 
indebted  to  the  able  and  admirable  work  of  Prof.  Moses  Coit  Tyler  on  American 
Literature. 


326       Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


them  in  what  the  world  now  calls  the  narrowness  of  their 
moral  and  religious  creeds. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  the  environment  of  the  Virginians 
or  of  the  New  England  colonists,  during  the  seventeenth 
century,  was  favorable  to  literature;  and,  had  it  been,  the 
stream  could  not  have  risen  here  higher  than  its  source  in  the 
mother  country.  And  in  England,  we  must  remember,  this 
was  the  age  of  reaction  and  decline  from  the  Elizabethan  era 
— the  age  of  *' crabbed  learning  and  quaint  conceits,"  of  fancy 
supplanting  imagination,  of  extravagant  expression  in  place 
of  real  feeling.  In  the  hard  struggle  for  existence  here,  little 
leisure  could  be  had,  and  little  incitement  could  be  found,  for 
the  cultivation  of  literature  as  an  art.  Nevertheless,  some 
works  were  produced.  In  Virginia  books  were  written  de- 
scriptive of  the  strange  land,  and  of  the  strange  life  the  colo- 
nists were  living  in  it — books  to  gratify  English  curiosity,  to 
correct  misapprehensions,  and  to  develop  a  better  spirit  and 
a  higher  life  among  the  colonists  themselves.  The  first  book 
written  in  America,  A  True  Relation  of  Virginia,  was  by  that 
remarkable  man — traveller,  soldier,  and  adventurer — Cap- 
TAiK  JoH2^  Smith.  The  following  extract  illustrates  its  style, 
both  in  matter  and  in  treatment  of  it: — 

Of  the  Natural  Inhabitants  of  Virginia. — The  land  is  not  populous, 
for  the  men  be  few;  their  far  greater  number  is  of  women  and  children. 
Within  60  miles  of  James  Towne,  there  are  about  some  5000  people,  but 
of  able  men  fit  for  their  wars  scarce  1500.  To  nourish  so  many  together 
they  have  yet  no  means,  because  they  make  so  small  a  benefit  of  their 
land,  be  it  never  so  fertile.  Six  or  seven  hundred  have  been  the  most 
hath  been  seen  together,  when  they  gathered  themselves  to  have  sur- 
prised me  at  Pamavnkee,  having  but  fifteen  to  withstand  the  worst 
of  their  fury.  As  small  as  the  proportion  of  ground  that  hath  yet  been 
discovered  is  in  comparison  of  that  yet  unknown.  The  people  differ  very 
much  in  stature,  especially  in  language,  as  before  is  expressed.  Some 
being  very  great  as  the  Sasquesahanocks;  others  very  little,  as  the  Wigh- 
cocomocoes:  but  generally  tall  and  straight,  of  a  comely  proportion,  and 
of  a  color  brown  when  they  are  of  any  age,  but  they  are  born  white. 
Their  hair  is  generally  black,  but  few  have  any  beards.     The  men  wear 


American  Prose — Captain  John  Smith's.     327 

half  their  beards  shaven,  the  other  half  long;  for  barbers  they  use  their 
women,  who  with  two  shells  will  grate  away  the  hair  of  any  fashion 
they  please.  The  women  are  cut  iu  many  fashions,  agreeable  to  their 
years,  but  ever  some  part  remaiaeth  long.  They  are  very  strong,  of  an 
able  body  and  full  of  agility,  able  to  endure  to  lie  under  a  tree  by  the 
fire,  in  the  worst  of  winter,  or  in  the  weeds  and  grass,  in  ambuscado  in 
the  summer.  They  are  inconstant  in  everything,  but  what  fear  con- 
straineth  them  to  keep.  Crafty,  timorous,  quick  of  apprehension,  and 
very  ingenious.  Some  are  of  disposition  fearful,  some  bold,  most  cau- 
telous,  all  savage.  Generally  covetous  of  copper,  beads,  and  such  like 
trash.  They  are  soon  moved  to  anger,  and  so  malicious  that  they  seldom 
forget  an  injury ;  they  seldom  steal  one  from  another,  lest  their  con- 
jurers should  reveal  it,  and  so  they  be  pursued  and  punished.  That 
they  are  thus  feared  is  certain,  but  that  any  can  reveal  their  offences  by 
conjuration  I  am  doubtful.  Their  women  are  careful  not  to  be  sus- 
pected of  dishonesty  without  the  leave  of  their  husbands.  Each  house- 
hold knoweth  their  own  lands  and  gardens,  and  most  live  of  their  own 
labors. 

For  their  apparel,  they  are  sometimes  covered  with  the  skins  of  wild 
beasts,  which  in  winter  are  dressed  with  the  hair  but  in  summer  with- 
out. The  better  sort  use  large  mantles  of  deer  skins,  not  much  differ- 
ing in  fashion  from  the  Irish  mantles.  Some  imbroidered  with  white 
beads,  some  with  copper,  other  painted  after  their  manner.  But  the 
common  sort  have  scarce  to  cover  their  nakedness,  but  with  grass,  the 
leaves  of  trees,  or  such  like.  "We  have  seen  some  use  mantles  made  of 
turkey  feathers,  so  prettily  wrought  and  woven  with  threads  that  nothing 
could  be  discovered  but  the  feathers.  That  was  exceeding  warm  and 
very  handsome.  But  the  women  are  always  covered  about  their  waists 
with  a  skin,  and  very  shamefast  to  be  seen  bare.  They  adorn  them- 
selves most  with  copper,  beads,  and  paintings.  Their  women,  some 
have  their  legs,  hands,  breasts,  and  face  cunningly  imbroidered  with 
divers  works,  as  beasts,  serpents,  artificially  wrought  into  their  flesh 
with  black  spots.  In  each  ear  commonly  they  have  3  great  holes* 
whereat  they  hang  chains,  bracelets,  or  copper.  Some  of  their  men 
wear  in  these  holes  a  small  green  and  yellow  colored  snake,  near  half 
a  yard  in  length,  which  crawling  and  lapping  herself  about  his  neck 
oftentimes  familiarly  would  kiss  his  lips.  Others  wear  a  dead  rat,  tied 
by  the  tail.  Some  on  their  heads  wear  the  wing  of  a  bird,  or  some  large 
feather  with  a  rattle.  Those  rattles  are  somewhat  like  the  shape  of  a 
rajjier,  but  less,  which  they  take  from  the  tail  of  a  snake.  Many  have 
the  whole  skin  of  a  hawk,  or  some  strange  fowl,  stuffed  with  the  wings 


328       lAterature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


abroad.  Others  a  broad  piece  of  copper,  and  some  the  hand  of  their 
enemy  dried.  Their  heads  and  shoulders  are  painted  red  with  the  root 
pocone  brayed  to  powder,  mixed  with  oil;  this  they  hold  in  summer  to 
preserve  them  from  the  heat,  and  in  winter  from  the  cold.  Many  other 
forms  of  paintings  they  use,  but  he  is  the  most  gallant  that  is  the  most 
monstrous  to  behold. 

Their  buildings  and  habitations  are  for  the  most  part  by  the  rivers  or 
not  far  distant  from  some  fresh  spring.  Their  houses  are  built  like  our 
arbors,  of  small  young  sprigs  bowed  and  tied,  and  so  close  covered  with 
mats,  or  the  barks  of  trees  very  handsomely,  that  notwithstanding  either 
wind,  rain,  or  weather,  they  are  as  warm  as  stoves,  but  smoky,  yet  at 
the  top  of  the  house  there  is  a  hole  made  for  the  smoke  to  go  into  right 
over  the  fire.  Their  fire  they  kindle  presently  by  chafing  a  dry  pointed 
stick  in  a  hole  of  a  little  square  piece  of  wood,  that  firing  itself,  will  so 
fire  the  moss,  leaves,  or  any  such  like  dry  thing,  that  will  quickly  burn. 

The  literature  of  the  New  England  colonies  during  this 
century  is  largely  theological.  This  was  the  age  of  the  learned 
JoH2>r  CoTTOi^,  who  was  called  the  Patriarch  of  New  England; 
of  Thomas  Hooker,  who  moved  from  his  parish  in  Newton, 
Mass.,  and  with  100  others  settled  Hartfoid,  Conn.,  and 
became  "priest  and  king"  of  his  people;  and  of  the  renowned 
Mathers,  father,  son,  and  grandson, — Eichard,  Increase, 
and  CoTTOis^, — men  of  vast  and  varied  attainments,  and  of  won- 
derful power  and  influence.  Ii^"crease  Mather  lived  on  till 
1723,  and  Oottok  till  1728,  so  that  they  belong  partly  to  the 
18th  century.  Increase  was  the  author,  it  is  said,  of  ninety- 
two  works,  of  which  the  most  noteworthy  is  A71  Essay  for  the 
Recording  of  Illustrious  Providences,  appearing  in  1684;  and 
Cotton  of  nearly  400,  great  and  small,  the  best  known  of 
which  is  his  celebrated  Magnalia  Christi  Americana,  written 
before  the  close  of  the  century,  but  not  published  till  1702. 

Some  attempts  in  verse  were  made  during  this  century. 
Mrs.  Anne  Bradstreet,  daughter  of  Gov.  Dudley  and  wife 
of  Gov.  Bradstreet,  coming  over  in  1630,  was  the  first  who 
aspired  to  poetry  as  a  vocation.  Quotations,  illustrating  her 
muse,  would  hardly  be  edifying  or  pleasing  now,  though  she 
was  much  admired  in  her  day. 


American  Literature  of  the  18th  Century,    329 


LiESSOisr   56. 

Ameeican  Liteeatuee  of  the  Eighteenth  Centtjey.— 

Before  the  opening  of  the  eighteenth  century,  English  colonies 
dotted  the  Atlantic  coast  from  Maine  to  Georgia.  These  have 
been  grouped  into  (1)  the  Northern,  or  New  England,  cluster; 
(2)  the  Middle,  including  New  York,  New  Jersey,  and  Penn- 
sylvania; and  (3)  the  Southern,  composed  of  Maryland,  Vir- 
ginia, North  and  South  Carolina,  and  Georgia.  The  litera- 
ture of  the  seventeenth  century  was  almost  entirely  produced 
by  those  born  in  England;  that  of  these  groups,  during  the 
eighteenth  century,  by  their  sons,  born  here.  There  is  lack- 
ing in  this  eighteenth  century  literature  what  we  should 
expect  to  miss — the  filial  and  submissive  tone  of  the  seven- 
teenth. It  was  obvious,  even  before  the  century  opened,  and 
it  became  more  and  more  patent  as  it  progressed,  that  the 
colonies  were  outgrowing  their  pupilage  and  becoming  self- 
reliant.  We  catch  this  note  early  and  distinctly.  This  spirit 
is  revealed  and  developed  by  the  French  and  Indian  war  of 
1755-63.  This  war  was  the  school,  too,  in  which  many  of  the 
best  soldiers  of  the  Revolutionary  struggle  graduated;  and 
it  may  be  questioned  whether,  without  the  training  received 
in  it,  this  great  struggle,  opening  with  the  last  third  of  the 
century,  would  have  been  successful,  even  if  attempted. 

The  New  England  Geotjp.— If,  as  may  be  questioned,  the 
ascendancy  of  the  clergy  here  was  not  as  complete  during  the 
eighteenth  century  as  during  the  seventeenth,  it  was  not  from 
any  decline  in  ministerial  scholarship  and  ability.  The  people 
had  grown.  Pines  do  not  tower  when  standing  among  spruce 
and  hemlocks  as  when  among  lowlier  cedars.  .  In  Samuel 
HoPKiKS,  the  hero  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  Minister's  Wooing,  in 
Nathaj^iel  Emmon-s  (living  well  into  the  next  century),  and 
in  Joi?"ATHA]sr  Edwards,  we  find  men  of  even  broader  culture 
and  keener  discrimination.     If  not  the  peers  of  their  prede- 


830       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


cessors,  or  of  some  of  their  contemporaries,  in  pulpit  elo- 
quence, it  cannot  be  denied  that  they  discussed  more  pro- 
foundly than  these  the  great  problems  of  divine  government 
and  human  responsibility.  Edwards  was  a  clergyman  at 
Northampton,  Mass.,  from  1727  to  1750,  afterwards  for  some 
years  a  missionary  among  the  Housatonic  Indians,  and  died 
in  1758  while  President  of  Princeton  College.  His  Inquiry 
into  the  Freedom  of  the  Will  is  a  work  without  superior  for 
subtility  of  reasoning. 

Many  other  clergymen  eminent  in  the  pulpit  deserve  men- 
tion. Some  of  these  became  i^nown  as  historians.  Wm. 
Hubbard  wrote  his  General  History  of  New  England^  down 
to  1680,  and  his  more  celebrated  Narrative  of  the  Troubles 
with  the  Indians  in  New  Eyigland,  down  to  1677.  Thomas 
Prikce's  Chronological  History  of  New  E7igla7id  appeared 
m  1736. 

The  laity  pressed  toward  the  front  during  this  century,  and 
shared  with  the  clergy  in  literary  labor  and  honors. 

The  Middle  Group.— Wm.  Livikgstoi^  of  New  York, 
afterwards  celebrated  as  a  statesman,  j)ublished,  in  1747,  a 
poem  called  Philoso'phic  Solitude.  Wm.  Smith  of  New  York, 
in  1757,  published  his  History  of  New  York  from,  the  First 
Discovery  to  the  Year  1732.  Jonathan  Dickinson,  of  Eliz- 
abethtown,  New  Jersey,  was  a  noted  clergyman,  a  physician, 
and  a  voluminous  author.  Philadelphia,  during  this  period, 
was  second  only  to  Boston  in  litorature.  Before  the  Revolu- 
tion, 425  original  books  and  pamphlets  were  printed  there.  Of 
the  host  of  writers  there  the  greatest  was  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin, editor,  scientist,  diplomat,  and  statesman,  as  well  as 
author.  He  was  born  in  Boston  in  1706,  and  died  in  Phila- 
delphia, whither  he  early  moved,  in  1790.  The  most  cele- 
brated of  his  writings  is  his  Autobiogra^jhy,  begun  in  1771, 
and  continued  in  1784  and  1788.  It  is  charming  for  the  sim- 
plicity and  purity  of  its  style,  and  is  one  of  the  most  popular 
books  ever  issued. 


American  Literature  of  the  18th  Century.    331 

The  Southern  Group. — The  pioneer  of  literary  activity 
in  Virginia,  daring  this  period,  was  James  Blair,  the  founder 
of  the  College  of  William  and  Mary,  and  president  of  it  for 
fifty  years.  Egbert  Beverly  published,  in  1705,  a  history  of 
Virginia,  and  in  1724  Hugh  Jones  appeared  with  another 
history  of  this  colony.  Jones  was  a  professor  in  William  and 
Mary  College,  and  wrote  text-books  also. 

Professor  Tyler  says,  "In  general,  the  characteristic  note  of 
American  literature  in  the  colonial  time  is,  for  New  England, 
scholarly,  logical,  speculative,  unworldly,  rugged,  sombre; 
and,  as  one  passes  southward  along  the  coast,  this  literary  note 
changes  rapidly  toward  lightness  and  brightness,  until  it 
reaches  the  sensuous  mirth,  the  frank  and  jovial  worldliness, 
the  satire,  the  persiflage,  the  gentlemanly  grace,  the  amenity, 
the  jocular  coarseness  of  literature  in  Maryland,  Virginia, 
and  farther  south." 

A  growing  tendency  is  observable,  as  the  century  pro- 
gresses, towards  a  union  of  the  colonies  in  closer  fellowship. 
This  tendency  is  strikingly  apparent  as  we  near  the  last  third 
of  the  century,  and  takes  distinct  form  as  the  oppressions  of 
the  mother  country  arouse  first  the  spirit  of  resentment  and 
then  that  of  resistance.  From  this  time  on,  political  questions 
swallow  up  all  others.  The  mere  literary  man,  if  he  can  be 
said  to  exist  in  this  country  during  this  century,  gives  place 
to  the  political  orator  and  the  statesman.  And  mighty  is  the 
race  of  these  that  now  appear  all  along  the  line,  called  into* 
existence  by  the  terrible  crisis;  since  of  them,  at  the  heginning 
of  the  struggle,  assembled  in  the  Continental  Congress  at 
Philadelphia  in  1774,  even  Chatham  could  say,  "I  must 
declare  and  avow  that,  in  the  master  states  of  the  world,  I 
know  not  the  people  nor  the  senate  who,  under  such  a  com- 
plication of  difficult  circumstances,  can  stand  in  preference 
to  the  delegates  of  America  assembled  in  General  Congress  at 
Philadelphia.  For  genuine  sagacity,  for  singular  moderation, 
for  solid  wisdom,  manly  spirit,  sublime  sentiments,  and  sim- 


332       Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


plicity  of  language — for  everything  respectable  and  honor- 
able— they  stand  unrivalled."  Of  these  men  during  the 
Revolutionary  struggle  we  cannot  here  speak  further,  nor  of 
them  during  the  years  immediately  succeeding,  when  the 
Herculean  labors  of  recuperation  and  reorganization  were  upon 
them.  A  new  Constitution  was  framed.  The  masterly  papers 
of  Alexander  Hamilton,  James  Madison,  and  John  Jay, 
essays  now  gathered  together  and  composing  The  Federalist, 
were  written  to  urge  the  adoption  of  this  Constitution;  the 
colonies  were  transformed  into  States,  and  the  Union  was 
created. 

With  an  added  word  or  two  we  pass  to  quote  briefly  from 
some  of  the  works  of  this  century.  The  first  newspaper  in 
America  was  printed  in  Boston  in  1690,  and  called  Public 
Occurrences;  the  first  that  lived  was  The  Boston  News-Letter, 
started  in  1704.  Before  the  close  of  1765,  forty- three  news- 
papers had  been  established  in  the  American  colonies — twenty 
in  New  England,  thirteen  in  the  Middle  group,  and  ten  in 
the  Southern.  Before  the  close  of  this  year,  seven  colleges 
also  were  established — Harvard  in  1636;  William  and  Mary  in 
1693;  Yale  in  1700;  New  Jersey  (Princeton)  in  1746;  King's 
(Columbia)  in  1754;  Philadelphia  (University  of  Pennsylvania) 
in  1755;  Rhode  Island  (Brown  University)  in  1764.  Their 
work  in  cementing  together  the  colonies  was  great,  and  their 
influence  upon  our  literature  can  scarcely  be  over-estimated. 

From  Edwards's  Inquiry  into  the  Freedom  of  the  Will. 
With  respect  to  the  degree  of  the  idea  of  the  future  pleasure.  With 
regard  to  things  which  are  the  subject  of  our  thoughts,  either  past,  pres- 
ent, or  future,  we  liave  much  more  of  an  idea  or  apprehension  of  some 
things  than  others;  that  is,  our  idea  is  much  more  clear,  lively,  and 
strong.  Thus,  the  ideas  we  have  of  sensible  things  by  immediate  sensa- 
tion are  usually  much  more  lively  than  those  we  have  by  mere  imagina- 
tion, or  by  contemplation  of  them  when  absent.  My  idea  of  the  sun, 
when  I  look  upon  it,  is  more  vivid  than  when  I  only  think  of  it.  Our 
idea  of  the  sweet  relish  of  a  delicious  fruit  is  usually  stronger  when  we 
taste  it  than  when  we  only  imagine  it.   And  sometimes  the  ideas  we  have 


American  Prose — Edwards's.  333 

of  things  by  contemplation  are  mucli  stronger  and  clearer  than  at  other 
times.  Thus,  a  man  at  one  time  has  a  much  stronger  idea  of  the  pleas- 
ure which  is  to  be  enjoyed  in  eating  some  sort  of  food  that  he  loves 
than  at  another.  Now  the  degree,  or  strength,  of  the  idea,  or  sense, 
that  men  have  of  future  good  or  evil  is  one  thing  that  has  great  influence 
on  their  minds  to  excite  choice,  or  volition.  When,  of  two  kinds  of 
future  pleasure  which  the  mind  considers  of  and  are  presented  for 
choice,  both  are  supposed  exactly  equal  by  the  judgment,  and  both 
equally  certain,  and  all  other  things  are  equal,  but  only  one  of  them  is 
what  the  mind  has  a  far  more  lively  sense  of  than  of  the  other,  this  has 
the  greatest  advantage  by  far  to  affect  and  attract  the  mind,  and  move 
the  will.  It  is  now  more  agreeable  to  the  mind  to  take  the  pleasure  it 
has  a  strong  and  lively  sense  of  than  that  which  it  has  only  a  faint  idea 
of.  The  view  of  the  former  is  attended  with  the  strongest  appetite, 
and  the  greatest  uneasiness  attends  the  want  of  it;  and  it  is  agreeable  to 
the  mind  to  have  uneasiness  removed,  and  its  appetite  gratified.  And, 
if  several  future  enjoyments  are  presented  together  as  competitors  for 
the  choice  of  the  mind,  some  of  them  judged  to  be  greater  and  others 
less,  the  mind  also  having  a  greater  sense  and  more  lively  idea  of  the 
good  of  some  of  them  and  of  others  a  less,  and  some  are  viewed  as  of 
greater  certainty  or  probability  than  others,  and  those  enjoyments  that 
appear  most  agreeable  in  one  of  these  respects,  appear  least  so  in  others, 
— in  this  case,  all  other  things  being  equal,  the  agreeableness  of  a  pro- 
posed object  of  choice  will  be  in  a  degree  some  way  compounded  of  the 
degree  of  good  supposed  by  the  judgment,  the  degree  of  apparent  prob- 
ability, or  certainty,  of  that  good,  and  the  degree  of  the  view,  or  sense, 
or  liveliness  of  the  idea  the  mind  has  of  that  good;  because  all  together 
concur  to  constitute  the  degree  in  which  the  object  appears  at  present 
agreeable;  and  accordingly  volition  will  be  determined. 

I  might  further  observe,  the  state  of  mind  that  views  a  proposed  object 
of  choice  is  another  thing  that  contributes  to  the  agreeableness  or  disa- 
greeableness  of  that  object;  the  particular  temper  which  the  mind  has  by 
nature,  or  that  has  been  introduced  and  established  by  education,  example, 
custom,  or  some  other  means;  or  the  frame,  or  state,  that  the  mind  is  in 
on  a  particular  occasion.  That  object  which  appears  agreeable  to  one 
does  not  so  to  another.  And  the  same  object  does  not  always  appear 
alike  agreeable  to  the  same  person  at  different  times.  It  is  most  agree- 
able to  some  men  to  follow  their  reason ;  and  to  others,  to  follow  their 
appetite;  to  some  men  it  is  more  agreeable  to  deny  a  vicious  inclination 
than  to  gratify  it ;  others  it  suits  best  to  gratify  the  vilest  appetites.  It  is 
more  disagreeable  to  some  men  than  to  others  to  counteract  a  former 


334       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


resolution.  In  these  respects,  and  many  others  which  might  be  men- 
tioned, different  things  will  be  most  agreeable  to  different  persons;  and 
not  only  so,  but  to  the  same  persons  at  different  times. 

But  possibly  it  is  needless  and  improper  to  mention  the  frame  and 
state  of  the  mind  as  a  distinct  ground  of  the  agreeableness  of  objects 
from  the  other  two  mentioned  before;  viz.,  the  apparent  nature  and  cir- 
cumstances of  the  objects  viewed,  and  the  mannerof  the  view;  perhaps, 
if  we  strictly  consider  the  matter,  the  different  temper  and  state  of 
the  mind  makes  no  alteration  as  to  the  agreeableness  of  objects  any 
other  way  than  as  it  makes  the  objects  themselves  appear  differently 
beautiful  or  deformed,  having  apparent  pleasure  or  pain  attending  them; 
and,  as  it  occasions  the  manner  of  the  view  to  be  different,  causes  the 
idea  of  beauty  or  deformity,  pleasure  or  uneasiness,  to  be  more  or  less 
lively. 

However,  I  think  so  much  is  certain,  that  volition,  in  no  one  instance 
that  can  be  mentioned,  is  otherwise  than  the  greatest  apparent  good  is, 
in  the  manner  which  has  been  explained.  The  choice  of  the  mind  never 
departs  from  that  which  at  that  time,  and  with  respect  to  the  direct  and 
immediate  objects  of  that  decision  of  the  mind,  appears  most  agreeable 
and  pleasing,  all  things  considered.  If  the  immediate  objects  of  the 
will  are  a  man's  own  actions,  then  those  actions  which  appear  most 
agreeable  to  him  he  wills.  If  it  be  now  most  agreeable  to  him,  all 
things  considered,  to  walk,  then  he  wills  to  walk.  If  it  be  now,  upon 
the  whole  of  what  at  present  appears  to  him,  most  agreeable  to  speak, 
then  he  chooses  to  speak;  if  it  suits  him  best  to  keep  silence,  then  he 
chooses  to  keep  silence.  There  is  scarcely  a  plainer  and  more  universal 
dictate  of  the  sense  and  experience  of  mankind  than  that,  when  men 
act  voluntarily^  and  do  what  the}''  please,  then  they  do  what  suits  them 
best,  or  what  is  most  agreeable  to  them.  To  say  that  they  do  what  they 
please,  or  what  pleases  them,  but  yet  do  not  do  what  is  agreeable  to 
them,  is  the  same  thing  as  to  say  they  do  what  they  please,  but  do  not 
act  their  pleasure ;  and  that  is  to  say  that  they  do  what  they  please,  and 
yet  do  not  do  what  they  please. 

It  appears  from  tliese  things  that,  in  some  sense,  the  will  always  fol- 
lows the  last  dictate  of  the  understanding.  But  then  the  understanding 
must  be  taken  in  a  large  sense,  as  including  the  whole  faculty  of  percep- 
tion, or  apprehension,  and  not  merely  what  is  called  reason,  or  judgment. 
If  by  the  dictate  of  understanding  is  meant  what  reason  declares  to  be 
best  or  most  for  the  person's  happiness,  taking  in  the  whole  of  his  dura- 
tion, it  is  not  true  that  the  will  always  follows  the  last  dictate  of  the 
understanding.     Such  a  dictate  of  reason  is  quite  a  different  matter 


American  Prose — Edwards's.  335 

from  things  appearing  now  most  agreeable;  all  things  being  put  together 
which  pertain  to  the  mind's  present  perception,  apprehensions,  or  ideas, 
in  any  respect.  Although  that  dictate  of  reason,  when  it  takes  place,  is 
one  thing  that  is  put  into  the  scales,  and  is  to  be  considered  as  a  thing 
that  has  concern  in  the  compound  influence  which  moves  and  iuduces 
the  will,  and  is  one  thing  that  is  to  be  considered  in  estimating  the  de- 
gree of  that  appearance  of  good  which  the  will  always  follows;  either  as 
having  its  influence  added  to  other  things,  or  subducted  from  them. 
When  it  concurs  with  other  things,  then  its  weight  is  added  to  them,  as 
put  into  the  same  scale;  but  when  it  is  against  them,  it  is  as  a  weight  in 
the  opposite  scale,  where  it  resists  the  influence  of  other  things:  yet  its 
resistance  is  often  overcome  by  their  greater  weight,  and  so  the  act  of 
the  will  is  determined  in  opposition  to  it. 

The  things  which  I  have  said  may,  I  hope,  serve  in  some  measure  to 
illustrate  and  confirm  the  position  I  laid  down  in  the  beginning  of  this 
section;  viz.,  that  the  will  is  always  determined  by  the  strongest  motive, 
or  by  that  view  of  the  mind  which  has  the  greatest  degree  of  previous 
tendency  to  excite  volition.  But,  whether  I  have  been  so  happy  as 
rightly  to  explain  the  thing  wherein  consists  the  strength  of  motives,  or 
not,  yet  my  failing  in  this  will  not  overthrow^  the  position  itself;  which 
carries  much  of  its  own  evidence  with  it,  and  is  the  thing  of  chief  im- 
portance to  the  purpose  of  the  ensuing  discourse;  and  the  truth  of  it,  I 
hope,  will  appear  with  great  clearness,  before  I  have  finished  what  I 
have  to  say  on  the  subject  of  human  liberty. 

From  Franklin's  AuioUography, 

And  now  I  set  on  foot  my  first  project  of  a  public  nature,  that  for  a 
subscription  library.  I  drew  up  the  proposals,  got  them  put  into  form 
by  our  great  scrivener,  Brockden,  and,  by  the  help  of  my  friends  in  the 
Junto,  procured  fifty  subscribers  of  forty  shillings  each  to  begin  with, 
and  ten  shillings  a  year  for  fifty  years,  the  term  our  company  was  to 
continue.  We  afterwards  obtained  a  charter,  the  company  being  in- 
creased to  one  hundred;  this  was  the  mother  of  all  the  North  American 
subscription  libraries,  now  so  numerous.  It  is  become  a  great  thing 
itself,  and  continually  goes  on  increasing.  These  libraries  have  im- 
proved the  general  conversation  of  the  Americans,  made  the  common 
tradesmen  and  farmers  as  intelligent  as  most  gentlemen  from  other 
countries,  and  perhaps  have  contributed  in  some  degree  to  the  stand  so 
generally  made  throughout  the  colonies  in  defence  of  their  privileges. 

At  the  time  I  established  myself  in  Pennsylvania,  there  was  not  a 
good  bookseller's  shop  in  any  of  the  colonies  to  the  southward  of  Boston. 


836       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


lu  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  the  printers  were  indeed  stationers, 
but  they  sold  only  paper,  almanacs,  ballads,  and  a  few  common-school 
books.  Those  who  loved  reading  were  obliged  to  send  for  their  books 
from  England;  the  members  of  the  Junto  had  each  a  few.  We  had 
left  the  ale-house,  where  we  first  met,  and  hired  a  room  to  hold  our  club 
in.  I  proposed  that  we  should  all  of  us  bring  our  books  to  that  room, 
where  they  would  not  only  be  ready  to  consult  in  our  conferences,  but 
become  a  common  benefit,  each  of  us  being  at  liberty  to  borrow  such  as 
he  wished  to  read  at  home.  This  was  accordingly  done,  and  for  some 
time  contented  us. 

Finding  the  advantage  of  this  little  collection,  I  proposed  to  render 
the  benefit  from  the  books  more  common,  by  commencing  a  public  sub- 
scription library.  I  drew  a  sketch  of  the  plan  and  rules  that  would  be 
necessary,  and  got  a  skilful  conveyancer,  Mr.  Charles  Brockden,  to  put 
the  whole  in  form  of  articles  of  agreement  to  be  subscribed ;  by  which 
each  subscriber  engaged  to  pay  a  certain  sum  down  for  the  first  pur- 
chase of  the  books,  and  an  annual  contribution  for  increasing  them.  So 
few  were  the  readers  at  that  time  in  Philadelphia,  and  the  majority  of 
us  so  poor,  that  I  was  not  able  with  great  industry  to  find  more  than 
fifty  persons,  mostly  young  tradesmen,  willing  to  pay  down  for  this 
purpose  forty  shillings  each,  and  ten  shillings  per  annum.  With  this 
little  fund  we  began.  The  books  were  imported ;  the  library  was  opened 
one  day  in  the  week  for  lending  them  to  the  subscribers,  on  their  prom- 
issory notes  to  pay  double  the  value  if  not  duly  returned.  The  institu- 
tion soon  manifested  its  utility,  was  imitated  by  otlier  towns,  and  in 
other  provinces.  The  libraries  were  augmented  by  donations;  reading 
became  fashionable;  and  our  people,  having  no  public  amusements  to 
divert  their  attention  from  study,  became  better  acquainted  with  books, 
and  in  a  few  years  were  observed  by  strangers  to  be  better  instructed 
and  more  intelligent  than  people  of  the  same  rank  generally  are  in  other 
countries.  i 

When  we  were  about  to  sign  the  abovementioned  articles,  which  wene 
to  be  binding  on  us,  our  heirs,  etc.,  for  fifty  years,  Mr.  Brockden,  tne 
scrivener,  said  to  us,  "You  are  young  men,  but  it  is  scarcely  probable 
that  any  of  you  will  live  to  see  the  expiration  of  the  term  fixed  in  the 
instrument."  A  number  of  us.  however,  are  yet  living;  but  the  instru- 
ment was  after  a  few  years  rendered  null  by  a  charter  that  incorporated 
and  gave  perpetuity  to  the  company. 

The  objections  and  reluctances  I  met  with,  in  soliciting  the  subscrip- 
tions, made  me  soon  feel  the  impropriety  of  presenting  one's  self  as  the 
proposer  of  any  useful  project  that  might  be  supposed  to  raise  one's 


American  Prose — Franklin's.  337 

reputation  in  the  smallest  degree  above  that  of  one's  neighbors,  when 
one  has  need  of  their  assistance  to  accomplish  that  project.  I  therefore 
put  myself  as  much  as  I  could  out  of  sight,  and  stated  it  as  a  scheme  of 
a  number  of  friends,  who  had  requested  me  to  go  about  and  propose  it  to 
such  as  they  thought  lovers  of  reading.  In  this  way  my  affair  went  on 
more  smoothly,  and  I  ever  after  practised  it  on  such  occasions;  and, 
from  my  frequent  successes,  can  heartily  recommend  it.  The  present 
little  sacrifice  of  your  vanity  will  afterwards  be  amply  repaid.  If  it 
remains  a  while  uncertain  to  whom  the  merit  belongs,  some  one  more 
vain  than  yourself  may  be  encouraged  to  claim  it,  and  then  even  envy 
will  be  disposed  to  do  you  justice,  by  plucking  those  assumed  feathers, 
and  restoring  them  to  their  right  owner. 

This  library  afforded  me  the  means  of  improvement  by  constant 
study,  for  which  I  set  apart  an  hour  or  two  each  day,  and  thus  repaired 
in  some  degree  the  loss  of  the  learned  education  my  father  once  intended 
for  me.  Reading  was  the  only  amusement  I  allowed  myself.  I  spent 
no  time  in  taverns,  games,  or  frolics  of  any  kind;  and  my  industry  in 
my  business  continued  as  indefatigable  as  it  was  necessary.  I  was  in- 
debted for  my  printing-house;  I  had  a  young  family  coming  on  to  be 
educated,  and  I  had  two  competitors  to  contend  with  for  business,  who 
were  established  in  the  place  before  me.  My  circumstances,  however, 
grew  daily  easier.  My  original  habits  qf  frugality  continuing,  and  my 
father  having,  among  his  instructions  to  me  when  a  boy,  frequently  re- 
peated a  proverb  of  Solomon,  "  Seest  thou  a  man  diligent  in  his  calling, 
he  shall  stand  before  kings,  he  shall  not  stand  before  mean  men,"  I 
thence  considered  industry  as  a  means  of  obtaining  wealth  and  distinc- 
tion, which  encouraged  me,  though  I  did  not  think  that  I  should  ever 
literally  stand  before  kings,  which,  however,  has  since  happened;  for  I 
have  stood  before  five,  and  even  had  the  honor  of  sitting  down  with 
one,  the  King  of  Denmark,  to  dinner. 

We  have  an  English  proverb  that  says,  "  He  that  would  thrive  must 
ask  his  wife."  It  was  lucky  for  me  that  I  had  one  as  much  disposed  to 
industry  and  frugality  as  myself.  She  assisted  me  cheerfully  in  my 
business,  folding  and  stitching  pamphlets,  tending  shop,  purchasing  old 
linen  rags  for  the  paper-makers,  etc.  We  kept  no  idle  servants,  our 
table  was  plain  and  simple,  our  furniture  of  the  cheapest.  For  in- 
stance, my  breakfast  was  for  a  long  time  bread  and  milk  (no  tea),  and  I 
ate  it  out  of  a  two-penny  earthen  porringer,  with  a  pewter  spoon.  But 
mark  how  luxury  will  enter  families,  and  make  a  progress,  in  spite  of 
principle:  being  called  one  morning  to  breakfast,  I  found  it  in  a  china 
bowl,  with  a  spoon  of  silver!     They  had  been  bought  for  me  without 


338       Literature  of  Period  VIII.,  1789  -. 

my  knowledge  by  my  wife,  and  had  cost  her  the  enormous  sum  of  three 
and  twenty  shillings;  for  which  she  had  no  other  excuse  or  apology  to 
make,  but  that  she  thought  her  husband  deserved  a  silver  spoon  and 
china  bowl  as  well  as  any  of  his  neighbors.  This  was  tlie  first  appear- 
ance of  plate  and  china  in  our  house;  which  afterwards,  in  the  course 
of  years,  as  our  wealth  increased,  augmented  gradually  to  several  hun- 
dred pounds  in  value. 

In  1733,  I  first  published  my  Almanac,  under  the  name  of  Bichard 
Saunders  ;  it  was  continued  by  me  about  twenty -five  years,  and  com- 
monly called  ' '  Poor  Richard's  Almanac. "  I  endeavored  to  make  it  both 
entertaining  and  useful,  and  it  accordingly  came  to  be  in  such  demand 
that  I  reaped  considerable  profit  from  it,  vending  annually  near  ten 
thousand.  And,  observing  that  it  w^as  generally  read,  scarce  any  neigh- 
borhood in  the  province  being  without  it,  I  considered  it  as  a  proper 
vehicle  for  conveying  instruction  among  the  common  people,  who 
bought  scarcely  any  other  books.  I  therefore  filled  all  the  little  spaces, 
that  occurred  between  the  remarkable  days  in  the  calendar,  with  pro- 
verbial sentences,  chiefly  such  as  inculcated  industry  and  frugality  as 
the  means  of  procuring  wealth,  and  thereby  securing  virtue;  it  being 
more  diflScult  for  a  man  in  want  to  act  always  honestly,  as,  to  use  here 
one  of  those  proverbs.  It  is  hard  for  an  empty  sack  to  stand  upright. 

These  proverbs,  which  contained  the  wisdom  of  many  ages  and 
nations,  I  assembled  and  formed  into  a  connected  discourse  prefixed  to 
the  Almanace  of  1757,  as  the  harangue  of  a  wise  old  man  to  the  people 
attending  an  auction.  The  bringing  all  these  scattered  counsels  thus 
into  a  focus  enabled  them  to  make  gn^ater  impression.  The  piece, 
being  universally  approved,  was  copied  in  all  the  newspapers  of  the 
American  Continent,  reprinted  in  Britain  on  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  to 
be  stuck  up  in  houses;  two  translations  were  made  of  it  in  France,  and 
great  numbers  bought  by  the  clergy  and  gentry  to  distribute  gratis 
among  their  poor  parishioners  and  tenants.  In  Pennsylvania,  as  it  dis- 
couraged useless  expense  in  foreign  superfluities,  some  thought  it  had 
its  share  of  influence  in  producing  that  growing  plenty  of  money, 
which  was  observable  for  several  years  after  its  publication. 

From  John  Adams's  Letters  to  his  Wife. 
Yesterday,  the  greatest  question  was  decided  which  ever  was  debated 
in  America,  and  a  greater,  perhaps,  never  was  nor  will  be  decided 
among  men.  A  Resolution  was  passed  without  one  dissenting  Colony 
"  That  these  United  Colonies  are,  and  of  right  ought  to  be,  free  and  in- 
dependent States,  and  as  such  they  have,  and  of  right  ought  to  have, 


American  Prose — John  Adamses.  339 


full  power  to  make  war,  conclude  peace,  establish  commerce,  and  to  do 
all  other  acts  and  things  which  other  Slates  may  rightfully  do. "  You 
will  see,  in  a  few  days,  a  Declaration  setting  forth  the  causes  which 
have  impelled  us  to  this  mighty  revolution,  and  the  reasons  which  will 
justify  it  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man.  A  plan  of  confederation  will  be 
taken  up  in  a  few  days. 

When  I  look  back  to  the  year  1761,  and  recollect  the  argument  con- 
cerning writs  of  assistance  in  the  superior  court,  which  I  have  hitherto 
considered  as  the  commencement  of  this  controversy  between  Great 
Britain  and  America,  and  run  through  the  whole  period  from  that  time 
to  this,  and  recollect  the  series  of  political  events,  the  chain  of  causes 
and  effects,  I  am  surprised  at  the  suddenness  as  well  as  greatness  of  this 
revolution.  Britain  has  been  filled  with  folly,  and  America  with  wis- 
dom; at  least,  this  is  my  judgment.  Time  must  determine.  It  is  the 
will  of  Heaven  that  the  two  countries  should  be  sundered  forever.  It 
may  be  the  will  of  Heaven  that  America  shall  suffer  calamities  still  more 
wasting,  and  distresses  yet  more  dreadful.  If  this  is  to  be  the  case,  it 
will  have  this  good  effect  at  least.  It  will  inspire  us  with  many  virtues 
which  we  have  not,  and  correct  many  errors,  follies,  and  vices  which 
threaten  to  disturb,  dishonor,  and  destroy  us..  The  furnace  of  affliction 
produces  refinement  in  States  as  well  as  individuals.  And  the  new 
governments  we  arc  assuming  in  every  part  will  require  a  purification 
from  our  vices,  and  an  augmentation  of  our  virtues,  or  they  will  be  no 
blessings.  The  people  will  have  unbounded  power,  and  the  people  are 
extremely  addicted  to  corruption  and  venality,  as  well  as  the  great.  But 
I  must  submit  all  my  hopes  and  fears  to  an  overruling  Providence,  in 
which,  unfashionable  as  the  faith  may  be,  I  firmly  believe. 

Had  a  Declaration  of  Independency  been  made  seven  months  ago,  i 
would  have  been  attended  with  many  great  and  glorious  effects. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  the  delay  of  this  Declaration  to  this  time  has 
many  great  advantages  attending  it.  The  hopes  of  reconciliation  which 
were  fondly  entertained  by  multitudes  of  honest  and  well-meaning, 
though  weak  and  mistaken  people,  have  been  gradually,  and  at  last 
totally  extinguished.  Time  has  been  given  for  the  whole  people  ma- 
turely to  consider  the  great  question  of  independence,  and  to  ripen  their 
judgment,  dissipate  their  fears,  and  allure  their  hopes  by  discussing  it  in 
newspapers  and  pamphlets,  b.y  debating  it  in  assemblies,  conventions, 
committees  of  safety  and  inspection,  in  town  and  county  meetings,  as 
well  as  in  private  conversations,  so  that  the  whole  people,  in  every  col- 
ony of  the  thirteen,  have  now  adopted  it  as  their  own  act.  This  wil] 
cement  the  union,  and  avoid  those  heats,  and   perhaps  convulsions, 


340       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


which  might  have  been  occasioned  by  such  a  Declaration  six  months 
ago. 

But  the  day  is  past.  The  second*  day  of  July,  1776,  will  be  the  most 
memorable  epocha  in  the  history  of  America.  I  am  apt  to  believe  that 
it  will  be  celebrated  by  succeeding  generations  as  the  great  anniversary 
festival.  It  ought  to  be  commemorated  as  the  day  of  deliverance,  by 
solemn  acts  of  devotion  to  God  Almighty.  It  ought  to  be  solemnized 
with  pomp  and  parade,  with  shows,  games,  sports,  guns,  bells,  bonfires, 
and  illuminations,  from  one  end  of  this  continent  to  the  other,  from  this 
time  forward  forevermore. 

You  will  thmk  me  transported  with  enthusiasm,  but  I  am  not.  I  am 
well  aware  of  the  toil  and  blood  and  treasure  that  it  will  cost  us  to  main- 
tain this  Declaration  and  support  and  defend  these  States.  Yet  through 
all  the  gloom  I  can  see  the  rays  of  ravishing  light  and  glory.  I  can  see 
that  the  end  is  more  than  worth  all  the  means.  And  that  posterity  will 
triumph  in  that  day's  transaction,  even  although  we  should  rue  it,  which 
I  trust  in  God  we  shall  not. 


Lessoist  57. 

American  Literature  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.^ 

We  shall  touch  upon  a  few  points  in  which,  as  it  seems  to  us, 
our  literature  differs  to-day  from  the  English,  and  leave  the 
American  authors  from  whom  we  shall  hereafter  quote  to 
illustrate,  if  they  may,  the  little  here  said,  and  the  much  left 
unsaid.  In  comparison  with  the  English  of  the  present,  we 
think  American  literature,  in  the  main, 

(1)  Lacks  Sobriety  and  Sedateness.— Our  authors  are 
somewhat  wanting  in  justness  of  perception — they  do  not  see 
things  precisely  as  tliey  are.  They  do  not  show  that  ripe  and 
unerring  judgment  that  comes  from  the  habit  of  patient  look- 
ing upon  things  from  all  sides.     They  are  imposed  upon  by 

*  The  practice  has  been  to  celebrate  the  4th  of  July,  the  day  upon  which  the  form 
of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  was  agreed  to,  rather  than  the  2d,  the  day  upon 
which  the  resolution  making  that  declaration  was  determined  upon  by  the  Con- 
gress. 


American  Literature  of  the  19th  Century.    341 

the  specious.  They  have  the  magnifying  eyes  of  children, 
cannot  see  without  feeling  and  allowing  the  feeling  to  color 
the  opinion  and  inflame  the  account.  They  are  impatient 
of  exact  statement,  easily  run  into  extravagance,  and  this 
whether  speaking  without  imagery  or  with  it.  What  modern 
English  author  of  note  would  say  in  cool  narrative,  as  a  noted 
American  has  done,  that  the  warmth  of  a  certain  man's  kindly 
aspect  was  so  excessive  that  '*an  extra  pass  of  the  water-carts 
was  found  essential  in  order  to  lay  the  dust  occasioned  by  so 
much  extra  sunshine;"  or  compare  Indian  cakes,  in  the  bright 
yellow  of  their  color,  with  **the  bread  which  was  changed  to 
glistening  gold  when  Midas  tried  to  eat  it"?  Delicacy  of 
touch,  so  common  in  the  old  country,  is  rare  here.  Lack 
of  it  and  of  sobriety  is  especially  seen  in  our  broad  and  auda- 
cious humor.  We  betray  that  incredulity,  so  characteristic 
of  the  uncultivated,  that  the  reader  can  take  up  a  suggestion, 
and  infer  what  is  only  implied.  The  restlessness  of  Ameri- 
can life  infects  our  literature — it  lacks  repose.  In  the  com- 
parison, we  must  add  that  American  literature 

(2)  Lacks  Simplicity — that  highest  outcome  of  culture-,  as 
it  has  been  called.  There  is  in  it  a  surplusage  of  expression. 
Adjectives  abound,  and  these  in  the  superlative  degree.  How 
hard  for  Americans  to  use  the  simple  yea,  yea;  nay,  nay, 
forgetting  that  in  communication  '*  Whatsoever  is  more  than 
these  Cometh  of  evil."  Are  not  our  heads  still  a  little  turned 
and  our  style  affected  by  the  extent  of  our  territory  and  our 
marvellous  material  success  ?  With  a  certain  character  in 
Longfellow's  Kavanali,  do  we  not  dream  of  a  literature  com- 
mensurate in  style  with  our  prairies,  our  K'iagaras,  and  our 
Great  Lakes;  and  in  American  letters  do  we  not  occasionally 
meet  an  author  who  has  studied  at  school  with  Elijah  Pogram  ? 
How  hard  for  us  to  be  colloquial,  call  things  by  their  simple 
and  homely  names,  keep  clear  of  tumid  expression,  avoid 
'^fine  writing,"  and  undertake  only  what  we  can  thoroughly 
accomplish !    We  seem  to  think,  as  our  orators  assure  us,  that 


342       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


the  eyes  of  the  world  are  still  upon  us;  and  we  find  it  difficult 
not  to  pose  and  attitudinize  as  if  upon  the  stage.  American 
literature,  we  think, 

(3)  Lacks  Respect  for  Authority.— We  are  a  young  na- 
tion, cut  off  from  tlie  old  world,  and  trying  the  experiment 
of  a  new  form  of  government.  European  experience  should 
certainly  count  for  more  than  it  does  in  our  politics  and 
statesmanship.  We  seem  to  think  that  difference  of  climate, 
of  race,  of  pursuit,  and  of  goyernment  changes  principles, 
and  suppose,  with  Pascal,  that  "a  meridian  is  decisive  of 
truth  and  a  few  years  of  possession,  that  fundamental  laws 
change,  and  that  right  has  its  epochs."  This  indocility  has 
in  some  measure  infected  our  writers.  Were  we  not,  for 
our  highest  good  in  literature  as  in  other  interests,  forced 
too  early  from  the  state  of  pupilage?  we  are  sometimes 
tempted  to  ask.  Grievous  as  that  condition  was,  would  it 
not  have  been  better  for  us  in  the  end,  could  we  have  borne 
it,  to  have  remained  longer  in  it,  and  to  have  emerged  from 
it  in  a  natural  way,  and  not  suddenly  and  violently.  It 
would  have  kepi,  down  the  flaunting  weeds  of  self-conceit, 
and  cultivated  in  us  a  spirit  of  docility,  and  respect  and  rever- 
ence for  authority — qualities  not  obtrusive  in  our  national 
character  or  in  our  writings.  We  add,  lastly,  that,  in  the 
comparison,  American  literature 

(4)  Lacks  Scholarship  and  Profundity.— We  are  not  will- 
ing to  serve  needed  apprenticeships;  are  ambitious  to  stand 
at  the  top  of  the  ladder,  but  dislike  to  climb  to  it  round  after 
round.  For  instance,  the  thorough  education  in  the  prepara- 
tory and  higher  schools,  and  the  five  years  in  the  medical 
college,  required  in  France  as  preliminary  to  practice,  we 
abbreviate.  In  business  and  in  every  profession,  including 
that  of  literature,  we  would  walk  before  we  have  learned  to 
creep,  and  run  before  we  can  walk;  and,  unfortunately,  the 
market  for  "  green  fruit"  of  all  kinds,  especially  literary,  is 
**  brisk"  here.     Our  readers  are  many,  if  not  profound.    They 


American  Literature  of  the  l^th  Century.    343 

create  a  demand  that  must  be  supplied;  it  is,  and  at  paying 
rates.  The  field  for  writers  here  is  broad,  and  largely  un- 
tilled;  the  tempting  rewards  held  out  are  not  for  master 
workmanship;  and  competition  in  the  higher  departments  is 
not  severe,  because  the  laborers  there  are  few.  American  lit- 
erature, then,  like  American  agriculture,  we  are  compelled 
to  say,  ploughs  shallowly  and  spreads  itself  over  vast  areas; 
does  not,  with  German  thoroughness,  or  even  with  the  Eng- 
lish, cultivate  its  fields. 

The  Reverse  Side  of  the  Picture.— But,  after  all,  it  is 
the  likeness,  rather  than  the  unlikeness,  of  American  litera- 
ture to  the  English  that  strikes  the  candid  and  thoughtful 
reader.  We  almost  wonder  that  so  long  and  so  distant  a 
separation  of  the  two  peoples  from  each  other  has  not  wrought 
more,  and  more  essential,  differences  between  them  and  be- 
tween their  literatures.  Those  which  exist  are  mostly  on  the 
surface.  They  arise  in  part  from  antagonism  to  the  mother, 
into  which  once  and  again  the  child  was  driven;  and  in  part 
are  vanishing  as  this  hostility  is  dying  out.  They  come  some- 
what from  our  new  environment — from  our  being  compelled 
in  so  many  things  to  be  a  law  to  ourselves.  But  they  come 
chiefly  from  our  youth;  and,  in  so  far  as  they  are  faults,  we 
hope  and  expect  that  they  will  disappear  with  that. 

The  spirit  of  our  literature  js  good.  It  does  not  come 
from  men  who  deny  kinship  with  the  race,  or  from  men 
moved  by  hatred  of  those  socially  above  them.  It  is  emi- 
nently humane.  It  is  sensitive  to  the  influence  of  nature, 
and  alive  with  regard  for  her  teachings.  Our  writers  are 
open  to  new  truth  and  receptive  of  it. 

Our  language  is  English,  and  theirs  is  American.  Some 
words,  and  the  forms,  pronunciations,  and  meanings  of  some 
words,  discarded  in  England,  are  retained  here;  but  these  are 
found  rather  in  common  speech,  are  seldom  employed  by  the 
better  educated  and  by  those  who  write.  New  words  and  old 
words  in  new  senses  are  seen  here;  but  the  lexical  differences. 


B44       Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


as  the  syntactic,  between  English  here  and  English  in  Eng- 
land are  fewer  and  less  important  than  those  between  the 
English  of  Edinburgh  and  that  of  London;  fewer  and  less  im- 
portant than  those  which  adjacent  shires  in  England  exhibit. 

English  literature  is  everywhere  read  here,  and  ours  there, 
and  the  number  of  those  here  who  read  deeply,  smaller  though 
it  be  than  that  in  England,  is  rapidly  increasing.  We  ac- 
knowledge, with  Everett,  ^^  the  incalculable  advantages  de- 
rived to  this  land  out  of  the  deep  fountains  of  civil,  moral, 
and  intellectual  truth  from  which  we  have  drawn  in  England." 

The  ties  of  every  other  kind  which  are  holding  the  two 
peoples  together  and  drawing  into  closer  unity  the  two  litera- 
tures are  multiplying  in  number  and  increasing  in  strength. 
We  need  not  apprehend  a  divergence  of  these  literatures  and 
the  consequent  deterioration  of  our  own. 

American  Prose. — Washii^gton  Irving  was  born  in  New 
York  City  in  1783,  and  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1807.  Com- 
menced with  his  brother  William  and  James  K.  Paulding 
the  serial  Salmagundi  in  1807  ;  published  Knicherhochef  s 
History  of  New  York  m  1808;  Shetch-Booh  in  1818;  Brace- 
hridge  Hall  in  1822;  Tales  of  a  Traveller  in  1824;  Life  and 
Voyages  of  Columbus  in  1828;  Conquest  of  Granada  in  1829; 
Companions  of  Columhus  in  1831;  The  Alhambra  in  1832; 
Astoria  in  1836  ;  The  Adventures  of  Captain  Bo7i7ieville  in 
1837;  Oliver  Goldsmith  in  1849;  Mahomet  and  his  Successors 
in  1850;  the  1st  volume  of  Life  of  Washington  m  1855  and 
the  5th  and  last  in  1859.  He  was  American  Minister  to  Spain, 
1842-6.     Died  at  Sunnyside  (Tarry town)  Nov.  28,  1859. 

**  Irving  was  by  nature  a  retrospective  man.  His  face  was  set  towards 
the  past,  not  towards  the  future.  He  never  caught  tfie  restlessness  of 
this  century,  nor  the  prophetic  light  that  shone  in  the  faces  of  Cole- 
ridge, Shelley,  and  Keats;  if  he  apprehended  the  stir  of  the  new  spirit, 
he  still,  by  mental  affiliation,  belonged  rather  to  the  age  of  Addison 
than  to  that  of  Macaulay.  His  writings  induce  to  reflection,  to  quiet 
musing,  to  tenderness  for  tradition;  they  amuse,  they  entertain,  they 
call  a  check  to  the  feverishness  of  modern  life;  but  they  are  rarely  stira- 


Prose — Irmngs.  345 


ulating  or  suggestive.  They  are  better  adapted,  it  must  be  owned,  to 
please  tlie  mauy  tlian  the  critical  few,  who  demand  more  incisive  treat- 
ment and  a  deeper  consideration  of  the  problems  of  life. 

I  do  not  know  how  to  account,  on  principles  of  culture  which  we  rec- 
ognize, for  our  author's  style.  His  education  was  exceedingly  defec- 
tive, nor  was  his  want  of  discipline  supplied  by  subsequent  desultory 
application.  He  seems  to  have  been  born  with  a  rare  sense  of  literary 
proportion  and  form;  into  this,  as  into  a  mould,  were  run  his  apparently 
lazy  and  really  acute  observations  of  life.  That  he  thoroughly  mastered 
such  literature  as  he  fancied  there  is  abundant  evidence;  that  his  style 
was  influenced  by  the  purest  English  models  is  also  apparent.  But  there 
remains  a  large  margin  for  wonder  how,  with  his  want  of  training,  he 
could  have  elaborated  a  style  which  is  distinctly  his  own,  and  is  as 
copious,  felicitous  in  the  choice  of  words,  flowing,  spontaneous,  flexible, 
engaging,  clear,  and  as  little  wearisome  when  read  continuously  in 
quantity  as  any  in  the  English  tongue." — (J.  B.  Warner. 

From  Irving's  History  of  New  York. 

Ills  a  maxim  practically  observed  in  all  honest,  plain- thinking,  regular 
cities  that  an  alderman  should  be  fat,  and  the  wisdom  of  this  can  be 
proved  to  a  certainty.  That  the  body  is  in  some  measure  an  image  of 
the  mind,  or  rather  that  the  mind  is  moulded  to  the  body,  like  melted  lead 
to  the  clay  in  which  it  is  cast,  has  been  insisted  on  by  many  philosophers 
who  have  made  human  nature  their  peculiar  study;  for,  as  a  learned 
gentleman  of  our  own  city  observes,  '  'There  is  a  constant  relation  between 
the  moral  character  of  all  intelligent  creatures  and  their  physical  consti- 
tution, between  their  habits  and  the  structure  of  their  bodies." 

Thus  we  see  that  a  lean,  spare,  diminutive  body  is  generally  ac- 
companied by  a  petulant,  restless,  meddling  mind:  either  the  mind 
wears  down  the  body  by  its  continual  motion  or  else  the  body,  not  af- 
fording the  mind  suflicient  house-room,  keeps  it  continually  in  a  state 
of  fretf ulness,  tossing  and  worrying  about  from  the  uneasiness  of  its 
situation.  Whereas  your  round,  sleek,  fat,  unwieldy  periphery  is  ever 
attended  by  a  mind  like  itself,  tranquil,  torpid,  and  at  ease;  and  we  may 
always  observe  that  your  well-fed,  robustious  burghers  are  in  general 
very  tenacious  of  their  ease  and  comfort,  being  great  enemies  to  noise, 
discord,  and  disturbance, — and  surely  none  are  more  likely  to  study  the 
public  tranquility  than  those  who  are  so  careful  of  their  own.  Who 
ever  heard  of  fat  men  heading  a  riot  or  herding  together  in  turbulent 
mobs?  No,  no, — it  is  your  lean,  hungry  men  who  are  continually 
worrying  society,  and  setting  the  whole  community  by  the  ears. 


346        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


The  divine  Plato,  whose  doctrines  are  not  sufficiently  attended  to  by 
philosophers  of  the  present  age,  allows  to  every  man  three  souls:  one, 
immortal  and  rational,  seated  in  the  brain  that  it  may  overlook  and  reg- 
ulate the  body;  a  second,  consisting  of  the  surly  and  irascible,  passions 
which,  like  belligerent  powers,  lie  encamped  around  the  heart;  a  third, 
mortal  and  sensual,  destitute  of  reason,  gross  and  brutal  in  its  propen- 
sities, and  enchained  below  that  it  may  not  disturb  the  divine  soul  by  its 
ravenous  bowlings.  Now,  according  to  this  excellent  theory,  what  can 
be  more  clear  than  that  your  fat  alderman  is  most  likely  to  have  the 
most  regular  and  well-conditioned  mind?  His  head  is  like  a  huge, 
spherical  chamber,  containing  a  prodigious  mass  of  soft  brains,  where- 
on the  rational  soul  lies  softly  and  snugly  couched,  as  on  a  feather  bed; 
and  the  eyes,  which  are  the  windows  of  the  bed- chamber,  are  usually 
half  closed  that  its  slumberings  may  not  be  disturbed  by  external  ob- 
jects. 

A  mind  thus  comfortably  lodged,  and  protected  from  disturbance,  is 
manifestly  most  likely  to  perform  its. functions  with  regularity  and  ease. 
By  dint  of  good  feeding,  moreover,  the  mortal  and  malignant  soul,  con- 
fined below,  and  which  by  its  raging  and  roaring  puts  the  irritable  soul 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  heart  in  an  intolerable  passion,  and  thus 
renders  men  crusty  and  quarrelsome  when  hungry,  is  completely 
pacified,  silenced,  and  put  to  rest, — whereupon  a  host  of  honest,  good- 
fellow  qualities  and  kind-hearted  affections,  which  had  lain  perdue, 
slyly  peeping  out  of  the  loop-holes  of  the  heart,  finding  this  Cerberus 
asleep,  do  pluck  up  their  spirits,  turn  out  one  and  all  in  their  holiday 
suits,  and  gambol  up  and  down  the  diaphragm,  disposing  their  possessor 
to  laughter,  good-humor,  and  a  thousand  friendly  offices  towards  his 
fellow-mortals. 

As  a  board  of  magistrates,  formed  on  this  principle,  think  but  very 
little,  they  are  the  less  likely  to  differ  and  wrangle  about  favorite  opin- 
ions; and,  as  they  generally  transact  business  upon  a  hearty  dinner, 
they  are  naturally  disposed  to  be  lenient  and  indulgent  in  the  adminis- 
tration of  their  duties.  Charlemagne  was  conscious  of  this,  and  there- 
fore ordered  in  his  cartularies  that  no  judge  should  hold  a  court  of 
justice  except  in  the  morning,  on  an  empty  stomach.  A  pitiful  rule, 
which  I  can  never  forgive,  and  which  I  warrant  bore  hard  upon  all  the 
poor  culprits  in  the  kingdom.  The  more  enlightened  and  humane 
generation  of  the  present  day  have  taken  an  opposite  course,  and  have 
so  managed  that  the  aldermen  are  the  best-fed  men  in  the  community; 
feasting  lustily  on  the  fat  things  of  the  land,  and  gorging  so  heartily  on 
oysters  and  turtles  that  in  process  of  time  they  acquire  the  activity  of 


Prose — Irmng's.  347 


the  one,  and  the  form,  the  waddle,  and  the  green  fat  of  the  other.  The 
consequence  is,  as  I  have  just  said,  these  luxurious  feastings  do  pro- 
duce sucli  a  dulcet  equanimity  and  repose  of  the  soul,  rational  and  irra- 
tional, that  their  transactions  are  proverbial  for  unvarying  monotony: 
and  the  profound  lava's  which  they  enact  in  their  dozing  moments,  amid 
the  labors  of  digestion,  are  quietly  suflPered  to  remain  as  dead  letters, 
and  never  enforced  when  awake.  In  a  word,  your  fair,  round- bellied 
burgomaster,  like  a  full-fed  mastiff,  dozes  quietly  at  the  house-door, 
always  at  home,  and  always  at  hand  to  watch  over  its  safety ;  but  as  to 
electing  a  lean,  meddling  candidate  to  the  office,  as  has  now  and  then 
been  done,  I  would  as  lief  put  a  grey-hound  to  watch  the  house,  or  a 
race-horse  to  draw  an  ox-wagon. 

The  burgomasters,  then,  as  I  have  already  mentioned,  were  wisely 
chosen  by  weight,  and  the  schepens,  or  assistant  aldermen,  were  ap- 
pointed to  attend  upon  them  and  help  them  eat;  but  the  latter,  in  the 
course  of  time,  when  tiiey  had  been  fed  and  fattened  into  sufficient 
bulk  of  body  and  drowsiness  of  brain,  became  very  eligible  candidates 
for  the  burgomasters'  chairs,  having  fairly  eaten  themselves  into  office, 
as  a  mouse  eats  his  way  into  a  comfortable  lodgment  in  a  goodly,  blue- 
nosed,  skimmed-milk,  New  England  cheese. 

From  the  Conquest  of  Granada. 

The  night  which  had  passed  so  gloomily  in  the  sumptuous  halls  of  the 
Alhambra  had  been  one  of  joyful  anticipation  in  the  Christian  camp. 
In  the  evening,  proclamation  had  "been  made  that  Granada  was  to  be 
surrendered  on  the  following  day,  and  the  troops  were  all  ordered  to  as- 
semble at  an  early  hour  under  their  several  banners.  The  cavaliers, 
pages,  and  esquires  were  all  charged  to  array  themselves  in  their  richest 
and  most  splendid  style,  for  the  occasion;  and  even  the  royal  family  de- 
termined to  layby  the  mourning  they  had  recently  assumed  for  the  sud- 
den death  of  the  prince  of  Portugal,  the  husband  of  the  princess 
Isabella.  In  a  clause  of  the  capitulation,  it  had  been  stipulated  that  the 
troops  destined  to  take  possession  should  not  traverse  the  city,  but 
should  ascend  to  the  Alhambra  by  a  road  opened  for  the  purpose  out- 
side of  the  walls.  This  was  to  spare  the  feelmgs  of  the  afflicted  inhab- 
itants, and  to  prevent  any  angry  collision  between  them  and  their  con- 
querors. So  rigoroufi  was  Ferdmand  in  enforcing  this  precaution  that 
the  soldiers  were  prohibited  under  pain  of  death  from  leaving  the  ranks 
to  enter  into  the  city. 

The  rising  sun  had  scarce  shed  his  rosy  beams  upon  the  snowy  sum- 
mits of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  when  three  signal  guns  boomed  heavily 


348       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


from  the  lofty  fortress  of  the  Alhambra.  It  was  the  concerted  sign  that 
all  was  ready  for  the  surrender.  The  Christian  army  forthwith  poured 
out  of  the  city,  or  rather  camp,  of  Sante  Fe,  and  advanced  across  the 
vega.  The  king  and  queen  with  the  prince  and  princess,  the  dignitaries 
and  ladies  of  the  court  took  the  lead,  accompanied  by  the  different 
orders  of  monks  and  friars,  and  surrounded  by  the  royal  guards  splen- 
didly arrayed.  The  procession  moved  slowly  forward,  and  paused  at 
the  village  of  Armilla,  at  the  distance  of  half  a  league  from  the  city. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  grand  cardinal  of  Spain,  escorted  by  three  thou- 
sand foot  and  a  troop  of  cavalrj",  and  accompanied  by  the  commander 
and  a  number  of  prelates  and  hidalgos,  crossed  the  Xenil  and  proceeded 
in  the  advance  to  ascend  to  the  Alhambra,  and  take  possession  of  that 
royal  palace  and  fortress.  The  road  which  had  been  opened  for  the 
purpose  led  by  the  Gate  of  Mills  up  a  defile  to  the  esplanade  on  the 
summit  of  the  Hill  of  Martyrs.  At  the  approach  of  this  detachment, 
the  Moorish  king  sallied  forth  from  a  postern  gate  of  the  Alhambra, 
having  left  his  vizier  to  deliver  up  the  palace.  The  gate  by  which  he 
sallied  passed  through  a  lofty  tower  of  the  outer  wall,  called  the  Tower 
of  the  Seven  Floors.  He  was  accompanied  by  fifty  cavaliers,  and  ap- 
proached the  grand  cardinal  on  foot.  The  latter  immediately  alighted, 
and  advanced  to  meet  him  with  the  utmost  respect.  They  stepped  aside 
a  few  paces,  and  held  a  brief  conversation  in  an  undertone,  when  Boba- 
dil,  raising  his  voice,  exclaimed,  "  i&o,  Seiior,  and  take  possession  of 
those  fortresses  in  the  name  of  the  powerful  sovereigns  to  whom  God 
has  been  pleased  to  deliver  them  in  reward  of  their  great  merits,  and  in 
punishment  of  the  sins  of  the  Moors."  The  grand  cardinal  sought  to 
console  him  in  his  reverses,  and  offered  him  the  use  of  his  own  tent 
during  any  time  he  might  sojourn  in  the  camp.  Bobadil  thanked  him 
for  the  courteous  offer,  adding  some  words  of  melancholy  import,  and 
then,  taking  leave  of  him  gracefully,  passed  mournfully  on  to  meet  the 
Catholic  sovereigns,  descending  to  the  vega  by  the  same  road  by  which 
the  cardinal  had  come.  The  latter,  with  the  prelates  and  cavaliers  who 
attended  him,  entered  the  Alhambra,  the  gates  of  which  were  thrown 
wide  open  by  the  alcalde,  Aben  Comixa.  At  the  same  time  the  Moor- 
ish guards  yielded  up  their  arms,  and  the  towers  and  battlements  were 
taken  possession  of  by  the  Christian  troops. 

While  these  transactions  were  passing  in  the  Alhambra  and  its  vicinity, 
the  sovereigns  remained  with  their  retinue  and  guards  near  the  village 
of  Armilla,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  towers  of  the  royal  fortress,  watch- 
ing for  the  appointed  signal  of  possession.  The  time  that  had  elapsed 
since  the  departure  of  the  detachment  seemed  to  them  more  than  neces- 


Prose — Irmng's.  B49 


sary  for  the  purpose,  and  the  anxious  mind  of  Ferdinand  began  to  en- 
tertain doubts  of  some  commotion  in  the  city.  At  length  they  saw 
the  silver  cross,  the  great  standard  of  this  crusade,  elevated  on  the 
Torre  de  la  Vela,  or  the  Great  Watch-Tower,  and  sparkling  in  the  sun- 
beams. This  was  done  by  Hernando  de  Talavera,  bishop  of  Avila. 
Beside  it  was  planted  the  pennon  of  the  glorious  apostle  St.  James, 
and  a  great  shout  of  "  Santiago!  Santiago!"  rose  throughout  the  army. 
Lastly  was  reared  the  royal  standard  by  the  king  of  arms,  with  the 
shout  of  "Castile!  Castile!  For  King  Ferdinand  and  Queen  Isabella!" 
These  words  were  echoed  by  the  whole  army  with  acclamations  that  re- 
sounded across  the  vega.  At  sight  of  these  signals  of  possession,  the 
sovereigns  sank  upon  their  knees,  giving  thanks  to  God  for  this  great 
triumph;  the  whole  assembled  host  followed  their  example,  and  the 
choristers  of  the  royal  chapel  broke  forth  into  the  solemn  anthem  of 
"Je  Deum  laudamus." 

The  king  now  advanced  with  a  splendid  escort  of  cavalry  and  the 
sound  of  trumpets,  until  he  came  to  a  small  mosque  near  the  banks  of 
the  Xenil,  and  not  far  from  the  foot  of  the  Hill  of  Martyrs,  which  edifice 
remains  to  (he  present  day  consecrated  as  the  hermitage  of  St,  Sebas- 
tian. Here  he  beheld  the  unfortunate  King  of  Granada  approaching 
on  horseback,  at  the  head  of  his  slender  retinue.  Bobadil,  as  he  drew 
near,  made  a  movement  to  dismount,  but,  as  had  previously  been  con- 
certed, Ferdinand  prevented  him.  He  then  offered  to  kiss  the  king's 
hand,  which,  according  to  arrangement,  was  likewise  declined,  where- 
upon he  leaned  forward  and  kissed  the  king's  right  arm;  at  the  same 
time  he  delivered  the  keys  of  the  city  with  an  air  of  mingled  melancholy 
and  resignation.  "These  keys,"  said  he,  "are  the  last  relics  of  the 
Arabian  empire  in  Spain:  thine,  O  King,  are  our  trophies,  our  kingdom, 
and  our  person.  Such  is  the  will  of  God !  Receive  them  with  the  clem- 
ency thou  hast  promised,  and  which  we  look  for  at  thy  hands." 

King  Ferdinand  restrained  his  exultation  into  an  air  of  serene  mag- 
nanimity. "  Doubt  not  our  promises,"  replied  he,  "  nor  that  thou  shalt 
regain  from  our  friendship  the  prosperity  of  which  the  fortune  of  war 
has  deprived  thee." 

Being  informed  that  Don  Inigo  Lopez  deMendoza,  the  good  count  of 
Tendilla,  was  to  be  governor  of  the  city,  Bobadil  drew  from  his  finger 
a  gold  ring,  set  with  a  precious  stone,  and  presented  it  to  the  count. 
"With  this  ring,"  said  he,  "Granada  has  been  governed;  take  it,  and 
govern  with  it,  and  God  make  you  more  fortunate  than  I." 

He  then  proceeded  to  the  village  of  Armilla,  where  the  queen  Isabella 
remained  with  her  escort  and  attendants.     The  queen,  like  her  husband, 


850        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


declined  all  acts  of  homage,  and  received  him  with  her  accustomed  grace 
and  benignity.  She  at  the  same  time  delivered  to  him  his  son,  who  had 
been  held  as  a  hostage  for  the  fulfilment  of  the  capitulation.  Bobadil 
pressed  his  child  to  his  bosom  with  tender  emotion,  and  they  seemed 
mutually  endeared  to  each  other  by  their  misfortunes. 

Having  rejoined  his  family,  the  unfortunate  Bobadil  continued  on 
towards  the  Alpuxarras  that  he  might  not  behold  the  entrance  of  the 
Christians  into  his  capital.  His  devoted  band  of  cavaliers  followed  him 
in  gloomy  silence;  but  heavy  sighs  burst  from  their  bosoms,  as  shouts 
of  joy  and  strains  of  triumphant  music  were  borne  on  the  breeze  from 
the  victorious  army . 

Having  rejoined  his  family,  Bobadil  set  forward  with  a  heavy  heart 
for  his  allotted  residence  in  the  Valley  of  Purchena.  At  two  leagues'  dis- 
tance the  cavalcade,  winding  into  the  skirts  of  the  Alpuxarras,  ascended 
an  eminence  commanding  the  last  view  of  Granada.  As  they  arrived 
at  this  spot,  the  Moors  paused  involuntarily  to  take  a  last  farewell  gaze 
at  their  beloved  city,  which  a  few  steps  more  would  shut  from  their 
sight  forever.  Never  had  it  appeared  so  lovely  in  their  eyes.  The  sun- 
shine, so  bright  in  that  transparent  climate,  lit  up  each  tower  and 
minaret,  and  rested  gloriously  upon  the  crowning  battlements  of  the 
Alhambra ;  while  the  vega  spread  its  enameled  bosom  of  verdure  below, 
glistening  with  the  silver  windings  of  the  Xenil.  The  Moorish  cavaliers 
gazed  with  a  silent  agony  of  tenderness  and  grief  upon  that  delicious 
abode,  the  scene  of  their  loves  and  pleasures.  While  th^y  yet  looked,  a 
light  cloud  of  smoke  burst  from  the  citadel,  and  presently  a  peal  of 
artillery,  faintly  heard,  told  that  the  city  was  taken  possession  of,  and 
that  the  throne  of  the  Moslem  kings  was  lost  forever.  The  heart  of 
BobadU,  softened  by  misfortune  and  overcharged  with  grief,  could  no 
longer  contain  itself .  "  Allah  Achbar !  God  is  great!"  said  he;  but  the 
words  of  resignation  died  upon  his  lips,  and  he  burst  into  tears. 


HiESSOisr  56. 

American  Frose. — William  Hicklin-g  Prescott  was  born 
Mt  Salem,  Mass.,  1796,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard,  1814. 
Devoted  several  years  to  the  study  of  ancient  and  modern  his- 
tory and  literature;  published  tlie  History  of  the  Beign  of  Fer- 
dinand and  Isalella,  1837;  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico ^ 
1843;  a  volume  of  Biographical  and  Critical  Miscellanies, 


Prose — Holmes's.  35\ 

1845;  Conquest  Q^J^eru,  1847;  two  volumes  of  a  History  of  the 
Reign  of  PMUp  the  Second,  1855,  and  a  third,  1858;  and  edited 
Eobertson's  Charles  the  Fifth,  1857.  Was  at  work  on  his 
Philip  the  Second,  to  comprise  six  volumes,. when  he  died  at 
Boston,  January  28,  1859.  By  common  consent  Prescott  is 
ranked  with  Irving  at  the  head  of  the  American  authors  of 
the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

John  Lothrop  Motley  was  born  at  Dorchester,  Mass.,  in 
1814,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1831.  Was  admitted 
to  the  bar  in  1836;  was  secretary  of  legation  at  St.  Peters- 
burg in  1841;  U.  S.  Minister  to  Austria,  1866-67;  and 
to  England,  1869-70.  Published  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch 
Republic,  1856;  The  History  of  the  United  Netherlands,  be- 
tween 1861  and  1868;  and  Life  of  John  Van  Barneveld,  1874. 
He  died  in  1877. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Mass., 
1809,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard,  1829.  Received 
the  degree  of  M.D.,  1836.  Became  professor  of  anatomy 
and  physiology  at  Dartmouth  College,  1838,  and  was  called 
to  the  same  chair  in  the  Harvard  Medical  School,  Boston, 
1847.  An  edition  of  his  poems  appeared  1836,  and  other 
poems,  1843,  1846,  and  1850.  His  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast 
Tahle,  abounding  in  witty  and  brilliant  thoughts  in  prose, 
with  occasional  poems,  came  out  in  the  Atlantic  Mo., 
1857-58.  It  was  followed  by  two  similar  works,  in  the  same 
magazine — the  Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table  SLXid  the  Poet 
at  the  Breakfast  Table.  Published  Elsie  Venner,  1861;  and 
the  Guardian  Angel,  1868. 


From  the  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table. — My  last  walk  with  the  School- 
mistress. 

I  can't  say  just  how  many  walks  she  and  I  had  taken  together  before 
this  one.  I  found  the  effect  of  going  out  every  morning  was  decidedly 
favorable  on  her  health.  Two  pleasing  dimples,  the  places  for  which 
were  just  marked  when  she  came,  played,  shadowy,  in  her  freshening 


352        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


cheeks  when  she  smiled  and   nodded  good-morning  to  me  from  the 
school-house  steps. 

I  am  afraid  I  did  the  greater  part  of  the  talking.  At  any  rate,  if  I 
should  try  to  report  all  that  I  said  during  the  first  half-dozen  walks  we 
took  together,  I  fear  that  I  might  receive  a  gentle  hint  from  my  friends, 
the  publishers,  lliat  a  separate  volume,  at  my  own  risk  and  expense, 
would  be  the  proper  method  of  bringing  them  before  the  public. 

I  would  have  a  woman  as  true  as  Death.  At  the  first  real  lie  which 
works  from  the  heart  outward,  she  should  be  tenderly  chloroformed  into 
a  better  world,  where  she  can  have  an  angel  for  a  governess,  and  feed 
on  strange  fruits  which  will  make  her  all  over  again,  even  to  her  bones 
and  marrow.  Whether  gifted  with  the  accident  of  beauty  or  not,  she 
should  have  been  moulded  in  the  rose-red  clay  of  Love,  before  the  breath 
of  life  made  a  moving  mortal  of  her.  Love-capacity  is  a  congenital  en- 
dowment; and  I  think,  after  a  while,  one  gets  to  know  the  warm-hued 
natures  it  belongs  to  from  the  pretty  pipe-clay  counterfeits  of  it.  Proud 
she  may  be,  in  the  sense  of  respecting  herself;  but  pride,  in  the  sense  of 
contemning  others  less  gifted  than  herself,  deserves  the  two  lowest 
circles  of  a  vulgar  woman's  Inferno,  where  the  punishments  are  Small- 
pox and  Bankruptcy. 

She  who  nips  off  the  end  of  a  brittle  courtesy,  as  one  breaks  the  tip  of 
an  icicle,  to  bestow  upon  those  whom  she  ought  cordially  and  kindly  to 
recognize,  proclaims  the  fact  that  she  comes  not  merely  of  low  blood 
but  of  bad  blood.  Consciousness  of  unquestioned  position  makes  peo- 
ple gracious  in  proper  measure  to  all;  but,  if  a  woman  puts  on  airs  with 
her  real  equals,  she  has  something  about  herself  or  her  family  she  is 
ashamed  of,  or  ought  to  be.  Middle  and  more  than  middle-aged  peo- 
ple, who  know  family  histories,  generally  see  through  it.  An  official  of 
standing  was  rude  to  me  once.  Oh,  that  is  the  maternal  grandfather, — 
said  a  wise  old  friend  to  me, — he  was  a  boor.  Better  too  few  words 
from  the  woman  we  love  than  too  many:  while  she  is  silent,  Nature  is 
working  for  her;  while  she  talks,  she  is  working  for  herself.  Love  is 
sparingl}^  soluble  in  the  words  of  men;  therefore  they  speak  much  of  it; 
but  one  syllable  of  woman's  speech  can  dissolve  more  of  it  than  a  man's 
heart  can  hold. 

Whether  I  said  any  or  all  of  these  things  to  the  schoolmistress,  or 
not,  whether  I  stole  them  out  of  Lord  Bacon,  whether  I  cribbed  them 
from  Balzac,  whether  I  dipped  them  from  the  ocean  of  Tupperian  wis 
dom,  or  whether  I  have  just  found  them  in  my  head,  laid  there  by  that 
solemn  fowl,  Experience,  (who,  according  to  my  observation,  cackles 
oftener  than  she  drops  real  live  eggs,)  I  cannot  sa3^     Wise  men  have 


Prose — Holmes's.  353 


said  more  foolish  tilings,  and  foolish  men,  I  don't  doubt,  have  said  as 
wise  things.  Anyhow,  the  schoolmistress  and  I  had  pleasant  walks  and 
long  talks,  all  of  which  I  do  not  feel  bound  to  report. 

You  are  a  stranger  to  me.  Ma'am,  I  don't  doubt  you  would  like  to 

know  all  I  said  to  the  schoolmistress.  I  sha'n't  do  it;  I  had  rather  get 
the  publishers  to  return  the  money  you  have  invested  in  this.  Besides, 
I  have  forgotten  a  good  deal  of  it.  I  shall  tell  only  what  I  like  of  what 
I  remember. 

My  idea  was,  in  the  first  place,  to  search  out  the  picturesque  spots 

which  the  city  affords  a  sight  of,  to  those  who  have  eyes.  I  know  a 
good  many,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look  at  them  in  company  with  my 
young  friend.  There  v/ere  the  shrubs  and  flowers  in  the  Franklin 
Place  front-yards  or  borders;  Commerce  is  just  putting  his  granite  foot 
upon  them.  Then  there  are  certain  small  seraglio-gardens,  into  which 
one  can  get  a  peep  through  the  crevices  of  high  fences, — one  in  Myrtle 
Street,  or  backing  on  it,— here  and  there  one  at  the  North  and  South 
Ends.  Then  the  great  elms  in  Essex  Street.  Then  the  stately  horse- 
chestnuts  in  that  vacant  lot  in  Chambers  Street,  which  hold  their  out- 
spread hands  over  your  head,  (as  I  said  in  my  poem  the  other  day)  and 
look  as  if  they  were  whispering,  "May  grace,  mercy,  and  peace  be 
with  you  !" — and  the  rest  of  that  benediction.  Nay,  there  are  certain 
patches  of  ground,  which,  having  lain  neglected  for  a  time.  Nature,  who 
always  has  her  pockets  full  of  seeds,  and  holes  in  all  her  pockets,  has 
covered  with  hungry  plebeian  growths,  which  fight  for  life  with  each 
other,  until  some  of  them  get  broad-leaved  and  succulent,  and  you  have  a 
coarse  vegetable  tapestry  which  Raphael  would  not  have  disdained  to 
spread  over  the  foreground  of  his  masterpiece.  The  Professor  pretends 
that  he  found  such  a  one  in  Charles  Street,  which,  in  its  dare-devil  im- 
pudence of  rough-and-tumble  vegetation,  beat  the  pretty-behaved  flower- 
beds of  the  Public  Garden  as  ignominiously  as  a  group  of  young  tatter- 
demalions playing  pitch-and-toss  beats  a  row  of  Sunday-school  boys 
with  their  teacher  at  their  head. 

But  then  tho  Professor  has  one  of  his  burrows  in  that  region,  and 
puts  everything  in  high  colors  relating  to  it.  That  is  his  way  about 
everything.  I  liold  any  man  cheap,  he  said,  of  whom  nothing  stronger 
can  be  uttered  than  that  all  his  geese  are  swans.  How  is  that.  Pro- 
lessor? — said  I;  I  should  have  set  you  down  for  one  of  that  sort.  Sir, 
said  he,  I  am  proud  to  say  that  Nature  has  so  far  enriched  me  that  I 
cannot  own  so  much  as  a  duck  without  seeing  in  it  as  pretty  a  swan  as 
ever  swam  the  basin  in  the  garden  of  the  Luxembourg.  And  the  Profes- 
sor showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes  devoutly,  like  one  returning  thanks 
after  a  dinner  of  many  courses. 


B64        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789  . 

I  don't  know  anything  sweeter  than  this  leaking  in  of  Nature  through 
all  the  cracks  in  the  walls  and  tioors  of  cities.  You  heap  up  a  million 
tons  of  hewn  rocks  on  a  square  mile  or  two  of  earth  which  was  green 
once.  The  trees  look  down  from  the  hill-sides  and  ask  each  other,  as 
they  stand  on  tiptoe,  "What  are  these  people  about?"  And  the  small 
herbs  at  their  feet  look  up  and  whisper  back,  "  We  will  go  and  see." 
So  the  small  herbs  pack  themselves  up  in  the  least  possible  bundles,  and 
wait  until  the  wind  steals  to  them  at  night  and  whispers,  "Come  with 
me."  Then  they  go  softly  with  it  into  the  great  city, — one  to  a  cleft  in 
tlie  pavement,  one  to  a  spout  on  the  roof,  oue  to  a  seam  in  the  marbles 
over  a  rich  gentleman's  bones,  and  one  to  the  grave  without  a  stone 
where  nothing  but  a  man  is  buried, — and  there  they  grow,  looking  down 
on  the  generations  of  men  from  mouldy  roofs,  looking  up  from  between 
the  less-trodden  pavements,  looking  out  through  iron  cemetery -railings. 
Listen  to  them,  when  there  is  only  a  light  breath  stirring,  and  you  will 
hear  them  saying  to  each  other,  "  Wait  awhile!"  The  words  run  along 
the  telegraph  of  those  narrow  green  lines  that  border  the  roads  leading 
from  the  city,  until  they  reach  the  slope  of  the  hills,  and  the  trees  repeat 
in  low  murmurs  to  each  other,  "  Wait  awhile!"  By-and-by  the  flow  of 
life  in  the  streets  ebbs,  and  the  old  leafy  inhabitants — the  smaller  tribes 
always  in  front — saunter  in,  one  by  one,  very  careless  seemingly,  but 
very  tenacious,  until  they  swarm  so  that  the  great  stones  gape  from  each 
other  with  the  crowding  of  their  roots,  and  the  feldspar  begins  to  be 
picked  out  of  the  granite  to  find  them  food.  At  last  the  trees  take  up 
their  solemn  line  of  march,  and  never  rest  until  they  have  encamped  in 
the  market-place.  Wait  long  enough  and  you  will  find  an  old  doting 
oak  hugging  a  huge  worn  block  in  its  yellow  underground  arms;  that 
was  the  corner-stone  of  the  State-House.  Oh,  so  patient  she  is,  this  im- 
perturbable Nature! 

Let  us  cry ! 

But  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  walks  and  talks  with  the 
schoolmistress.  I  did  not  say  that  I  would  not  tell  you  something  about 
them.  Let  me  alone,  and  I  shall  talk  to  you  more  than  I  ought  to, 
probably.     We  never  tell  our  secrets  to  people  that  pump  for  them. 

Books  we  talked  about,  and  education.  It  was  her  duty  to  know 
something  of  these,  and  of  course  she  did.  Perhaps  I  was  somewhat 
more  learned  than  she,  but  I  found  that  the  difference  between  her 
reading  and  mine  was  like  that  of  a  man's  and  a  woman's  dusting  a 
library.  The  man  flaps  about  with  a  bunch  of  feathers;  the  woman 
goes  to  work  softly  with  a  cloth  She  does  not  raise  half  the  dust,  nor 
fill  her  own  eyes  and  mouth  Vith  it, — but  she  goes  into  all  the  corners, 
and  attends  to  the  leaves  as  much  as  the  covers. 


Prose — Holmes*  s.  355 

Books  are  the  negative  pictures  of  thought,  and  the  more  sensitive  the 
mind  that  receives  their  images,  the  more  nicely  the  finest  lines  are 
reproduced.  A  woman  (of  the  right  kind)  reading  after  a  man,  follows 
him  as  Ruth  followed  the  reapers  of  Boaz,  and  her  gleanings  are  often 
the  finest  of  the  wheat. 

But  it  was  in  talking  of  Life  that  we  came  most  nearly  together.  I 
thought  I  knew  something  about  that, — that  I  could  speak  or  write  about 
it  somewhat  to  the  purpose. 

To  take  up  this  fluid  earthly  being  of  ours  as  a  sponge  sucks  up  water; 
to  be  steeped  and  soaked  in  its  realities  as  a  hide  fills  its  pores  lying  seven 
years  in  a  tan-pit;  to  have  winnowed  every  wave  of  it  as  a  mill-wheel 
works  up  the  stream  that  runs  through  the  flume  upon  its  float-boards; 
to  have  curled  up  in  the  keenest  spasms  and  flattened  out  in  the  laxest 
languors  of  this  breathing-sickness,  which  keeps  certain  parcels  of  mat- 
ter uneasy  for  throe  o^  four  §core  years;  to  have  fought  all  the  devils 
and  clasped  all  the  angels  of  its  delirium; — and  then,  just  at  the  point 
when  the  white-hot  passions  have  cooled  down  to  cherry  red,  plunge  our 
experience  into  the  ice-cold  stream  of  some  human  language  or  other, 
one  might  think  would  end  in  a  rhapsody  with  something  of  spring  and 
temper  in  it.     All  this  I  thought  my  power  and  province. 

The  schoolmistress  had  tried  life,  too.  Once  in  a  while  one  meets  with 
a  single  soul  greater  than  all  the  living  pageant  that  passes  before  it. 
As  the  pale  astronomer  sits  in  his  study  with  sunken  eyes  and  thin  fin- 
gers, and  weighs  Uranus  or  Neptune  as  in  a  balance,  so  there  are  meek, 
slight  women  who  have  weighed  all  that  this  planetary  life  can  offer, 
and  hold  it  like  a  bauble  in  the  palm  of  their  slender  hands.  This  was 
one  of  them.  Fortune  had  left  her,  sorrow  had  baptized  her;  the  routine 
of  labor  and  the  loneliness  of  almost  friendless  city-life  were  before  her. 
Yet,  as  I  looked  upon  her  tranquil  face,  gradually  regaining  a  cheerful- 
ness that  was  often  sprightly,  as  she  became  interested  in  the  various 
matters  we  talked  about  and  places  we  visited,  I  saw  that  eye  and  lip 
and  every  shifting  lineament  were  made  for  love, — unconscious  of  their 
sweet  office  as  yet,  and  meeting  the  cold  aspect  of  Duty  with  the  natural 
graces  which  were  meant  for  the  reward  of  nothing  less  than  the  Great 
Passion. 

I  never  spoke  one  word  of  love  to  the  schoolmistress  in  the  course  of 
these  pleasant  walks.  It  seemed  to  me  that  we  talked  of  everything  but 
love  on  that  particular  morning.  There  was,  perhaps,  a  little  more 
timidity  and  hesitancy  on  my  part  than  I  have  commonly  shown  among 
our  people  at  the  boarding-house.  In  fact,  I  considered  myself  the 
master  at  the  breakfast- table;  but,  somehow,  I  could  not  command  my- 


356        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789  . 

self  just  then  so  well  as  usual.  The  truth  is,  I  had  secured  a  passage 
to  Liverpool  in  the  steamer  which  was  to  leave  at  noon, — with  the  con- 
dition, however,  of  being  released  in  case  circumstances  occurred  to 
detain  me.  The  schoolmistress  knew  nothing  about  all  this,  of  course, 
as  yet. 

It  was  on  the  Common  that  we  were  walking.  The  mall,  or  boulevard 
of  our  Common,  you  know,  has  various  branches  leading  from  it  in 
different  directions.  One  of  these  runs  downward  from  opposite  Joy 
Street  southward  across  the  whole  length  of  the  Common  to  Boylston 
Street.     We  called  it  tlie  long  path,  and  were  fond  of  it. 

I  felt  very  weak  indeed  (though  of  a  tolerably  robust  habit)  as  we 
came  opposite  the  head  of  this  path  on  that  morning.  1  think  I  tried 
to  speak  twice  without  making  myself  distinctly  audible.  At  last  I  got 
out  the  question,  "  Will  you  take  the  long  path  with  me?"  "  Certainly," 
said  the  schoolmistress,  "with  much  pleasure."  "Think,"  I  said,  "be- 
fore you  answer;  if  you  take  the  long  path  with  me  now,  I  shall  inter- 
pret  it  that  we  are  to  part  no  more!"  The  schoolmistress  stepped  back 
with  a  sudden  movement,  as  if  an  arrow  had  struck  her. 

One  of  the  long  granite  blocks  used  as  seats  was  hard  by, — the  one 
you  may  still  see  close  by  the  Gingko-tree.  "  Pray,  sit  down,"  I  said. 
"No,  no,"  she  answered  softly,  "I  will  walk  the  long  path  with  you!" 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  met  us  walking,  arm  in  arm, 
about  the  middle  of  the  long  path,  and  said,  very  charmingly,  "  Good 
morning,  my  dears!" 

Lessoist  57. 

American   Prose.— Ralph  Waldo  Emersok,  was  born  in 

Boston  in  1803,  and  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1821.  Began 
his  long  and  splendid  seryice  as  a  lecturer  in  1833;  made 
Concord,  Mass.,  his  home  in  1835;  published  a  volume,  called 
Nature,  in  1836;  two  other  volumes  of  Essays  in  1841  and 
1844;  his  Poems  in  1846;  his  miscellaneous  addresses  in  1849; 
Representative  Men  in  1850;  English  Traits  in  1856;  The 
Conduct  of  Life  in  1860,  May  Day  and  other  Poems  and 
Society  and  Solitude  in  1869.  He  died  in  1882. 

"Before  those  for  whom  alone  he  writes,  those  who  think,  Emerson 
holds  up  perpetually  the  great  end  and  aim  of  attaining  absolute  truth;  it 
was  so  in  his  earliest,  it  is  so  in  his  latest,  works;  but  there  is  in  the  later 


Prose — Emerson's.  357 


the  recognition  that  the  thinker's  business  is  for  the  present  rather  with  the 
corner-stone  than  the  coping-stone  of  his  tower  of  vision.  It  is  an  age 
of  preparations  rather  than  attainments.  The  scholar  is  to  gain  his 
freedom,  to  get  rid  of  his  gilded  gyves  rather  than  to  try  his  wings;  he 
is  to  demonstrate  his  liberty  rather  than  press  it.  Hers,  in  The  Conduct 
of  Life  and  in  Society  and  Solitude,  are  rules  of  life  that  go  to  the  very  gen- 
eration of  the  thinker,  and  estimate  the  virginal  elements  of  which  he  is 
born;  his  diet,  health,  habits,  physical  as  well  as  mental,  are  anxiously 
discussed;  for  with  him  is  the  hope  of  the  world." — M.  D.  Conway. 

"The  bother  with  Mr.  Emerson  is,  that,  though  he  writes  in  prose,  he 
is  essentially  a  poet.  If  you  undertake  to  paraphrase  what  he  says  and 
to  reduce  it  to  words  of  one  syllable  for  infant  minds,  you  will  make  as 
sad  work  of  it  as  the  good  monk  did  with  his  analysis  of  Homer  in  the 
EpistoloR  Obscurorum  Virorum.  We  look  upon  him  as  one  of  the  few 
men  of  genius  whom  our  age  has  produced,  and  there  needs  no  better 
proof  of  it  than  his  masculine  faculty  of  fecundating  other  minds. 
Search  for  his  eloquence  in  his  books,  and  you  will  perchance  miss  it, 
but  meanwhile  you  will  find  that  it  has  kindled  all  your  thoughts. 

For  choice  and  pith  of  language  he  belongs  to  a  better  age  than  ours, 
and  might  rub  shoulders  with  Fuller  and  Browne, — though  he  does  use 
that  abominable  word  reliable.  His  eye  for  a  fine,  telling  phrase  that 
will  carry  true  is  like  that  of  a  backwoodsman  for  a  rifle:  and  he  will 
dredge  you  up  a  choice  word  from  the  mud  of  Cotton  Mather  himself. 
A  diction  at  once  so  rich  and  so  homely  as  his  I  know  not  where  to 
match  in  these  days  of  writing  by  the  page;  it  is  like  homespun  cloth- 
of-gold.  The  many  cannot  miss  his  meaning,  and  only  the  few  can  find 
it.  It  is  the  open  secret  of  all  true  genius.  It  is  wholesome  to  angle 
in  those  profound  pools,  though  one  be  rewarded  with  nothing  more 
than  the  leap  of  a  fish  that  flashes  his  freckled  side  in  the  sun  and  as 
suddenly  absconds  in  the  dark  and  dreamy  waters  again.  There  is 
keen  excitement,  though  there  be  no  pondernble  acquisition.  If  we 
rarry  nothing  home  in  our  baskets,  there  is  ample  gain  in  dilated  lungs 
and  stimulated  blood."— J.  R.  Lowell. 

From  Culture  in  Conduct  of  Life. 
Culture  is  the  suggestion  from  certain  best  thoughts,  that  a  man  has 
a  range  of  affinities  through  which  he  can  modulate  the  violence  of  any 
master-tones  that  have  a  droning  preponderance  in  his  scale,  and  succor 
him  against  himself.  Culture  redresses  his  balance,  puts  him  among 
his  equals  and  superiors,  revives  the  delicious  sense  of  sympathy,  and 
warns  him  of  the  dangers  of  solitude  and  repulsion. 


358       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


'Tis  not  a  compliment  but  a  disparagement  to  consult  a  man  only  on 
horses  or  on  steam  or  on  theatres  or  on  eating  or  on  books,  and,  when- 
ever he  appears,  considerately  to  turn  the  conversation  to  the  bantling 
he  is  known  to  fondle.  In  the  Norse  heaven  of  our  forefathers,  Thor's 
house  had  five  hundred  and  forty  floors,  and  man's  house  has  five 
hundred  and  forty  floors.  His  excellence  is  facility  of  adaptation  and 
of  transition  through  many  related  points,  to  wide  contrasts  and  ex- 
tremes. Culture  kills  his  exaggeration,  his  conceit  of  his  village  or  his 
city.  We  must  leave  our  pets  at  home  when  we  go  into  the  street,  and 
meet  men  on  broad  grounds  of  good  meaning  and  good  sense. 

'Tis  incident  to  scholars  that  each  of  them  fancies  he  is  pointedly 
odious  in  his  community.  Draw  him  out  of  this  limbo  of  irritability. 
Cleanse  with  healthy  blood  his  parchment  skin.  If  you  are  the  victim 
of  your  doing,  who  cares  what  >you  do?  We  can  spare  your  opera, 
your  gazetteer,  your  chemic  analysis,  your  history,  your  syllogisms. 
Your  man  of  genius  pays  dear  for  his  distinction.  His  head  runs  up 
into  a  spire,  and,  instead  of  a  healthy  man,  merry  and  wise,  he  is  some 
mad  dominie.  Nature  is  reckless  of  the  individual.  When  she  has  points 
to  carry,  sbe  carries  tliem.  To  wade  in  marshes  and  sea-margins  is  the 
destiny  of  certain  birds,  and  they  are  so  accurately  made  for  this  that 
they  are  imprisoned  in  those  places.  Each  animal  out  of  its  habitat 
would  starve.  To  the  physician  each  man,  each  woman,  is  an  amplifi- 
cation of  one  organ.  A  soldier,  a  locksmith,  a  bank- clerk,  and  a 
dancer  could  not  exchange  functions.  And  thus  we  are  victims  of  adap- 
tation. 

The  antidotes  against  this  organic  egotism  are  the  range  and  variety 
of  attractions,  as  gained  by  acquaintance  with  the  world,  with  men  of 
merit,  with  classes  of  society,  with  travel,  with  eminent  persons,  and 
with  the  high  resources  of  philosophy,  art,  and  religion,  books,  travel, 
society,  solitude. 

The  hardiest  skeptic  who  has  seen  a  horse  broken,  a  pointer  trained, 
or  who  has  visited  a  menagerie  or  the  exhibition  of  the  Industrious 
Fleas  will  not  deny  the  validity  of  education.  "A  boy,"  says  Plato, 
"  is  the  most  vicious  of  all  wild  beasts;"  and,  in  the  same  spirit,  the  old 
English  poet  Gascoigne  says,  "A  boy  is  better  unborn  than  untaught." 
The  city  breeds  one  kind  of  speech  and  manners;  the  back-country  a 
different  style;  the  sea  another;  the  army  a  fourth.  .  We  know  that  an 
army  which  can  be  confided  in  may  be  formed  by  discipline;  that  by 
systematic  discipline  all  men  may  be  made  heroes.  Marshal  Lannes 
said  to  a  French  oflQcer,  "  Know,  Colonel,  that  none  but  a  poltroon  will 
boast  that  he  never  was  afraid."    A  great  part  of  courage  is  the  courage 


Prose — Emerson's.  359 


of  having  done  the  thing  before.  And  in  all  human  action  thosi  facul- 
ties will  be  strong  which  are  used.  Robert  Owen  said,  "Give  me  a 
tiger  and  I  will  educate  him."  'Tis  inhuman  to  want  faith  in  the 
power  of  education,  since  to  meliorate  is  the  law  of  nature;  and  men 
are  valued  precisely  as  they  exert  onward  or  meliorating  force.  On  the 
other  hand,  poltroonery  is  the  acknowledging  an  inferiority  to  be  in- 
curable. 

Let  us  make  our  education  brave  and  preventive.  Politics  is  an  after- 
work,  a  poor  patching.  We  are  always  a  little  late.  The  evil  is  done, 
the  law  is  passed,  and  we  begin  the  up-hill  agitation  for  repeal  of  that 
of  which  we  ought  to  have  prevented  the  enacting.  We  shall  one  day 
learn  to  supersede  politics  by  education.  What  we  call  our  root-and- 
branch  reforms  of  slavery,  war,  gambling,  intemperance,  is  only  medi- 
cating the  symptoms.  We  must  begin  higher  up,  namely,  in  Educa- 
tion. 

Our  arts  and  tools  give  to  him  who  can  handle  them  much  the  same 
advantage  over  the  novice,  as  if  you  extended  his  life  ten,  fifty,  or  a 
hundred  years.  And  I  think  it  the  part  of  good  sense  to  provide  every 
fine  soul  with  such  culture,  that  it  shall  not,  at  thirty  or  forty  years,  have 
to  say,  "  This  which  I  might  do  is  made  hopeless  through  my  want  of 
weapons." 

But  it  is  conceded  that  much  of  our  training  fails  of  effect;  that  all 
success  is  hazardous  and  rare;  that  a  large  part  of  our  cost  and  pains  is 
thrown  away.  Nature  takes  the  matter  into  her  own  hands,  and,  though 
we  must  not  omit  any  jot  of  our  system,  we  can  seldom  be  sure  that  it 
has  availed  much,  or  that  as  much  good  would  not  have  accrued  from 
a  different  system. 

Books,  as  containing  the  finest  records  of  human  wit,  must  always 
enter  into  our  notion  of  culture.  The  best  heads  that  ever  existed, 
Pericles,  Plato,  Julius  Caesar,  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Milton,  were  well- 
read,  universally  educated  men,  and  quite  too  wise  to  undervalue  letters. 
Their  opinion  has  weight,  because  they  had  means  of  knowing  the 
opposite  opinion.  We  look  that  a  great  man  should  be  a  good  reader, 
or,  in  proportion  to  the  spontaneous  power  should  be  the  assimilating 
power.  Good  criticism  is  very  rare,  and  always  precious.  I  am  always 
happy  to  meet  persons  who  perceive  the  transcendent  superiority  of 
Shakespeare  over  all  other  writers.  I  like  people  who  like  Plato,  be- 
cause this  love  does  not  consist  with  self-conceit. 

But  books  are  good  only  as  far  as  a  boy  is  ready  for  them.  He  some- 
times gets  ready  very  slowly.  You  send  your  child  to  the  schoolmaster, 
but  'tis  the  school-boys  who  educate  him.     You  send  him  to  the  Latiu 


360        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


class,  but  much  of  his  tuition  comes,  on  his  way  to  school,  from  the 
shop-windows.  You  like  the  strict  rules  and  the  long  terms;  and  he 
finds  his  best  leading  in  a  by-way  of  his  own,  and  refuses  any  compan- 
ions but  of  his  choosing,  lie  hates  the  grammar  and  Oradus,  and  loves 
guns,  fishing-rods,  horses,  and  boats.  Well,  the  boy  is  right;  and  you 
are  not  fit  to  direct  his  bringing-up,  if  your  theory  leaves  out  his  gym- 
nastic training.  Archery,  cricket,  gun  and  fishing-rod,  horse  and  boat, 
are  all  educators,  liberalizers;  and  so  are  dancing,  dress,  and  the  street 
talk;  and, — provided  only  the  boy  has  resources,  and  is  of  a  noble  and 
ingenuous  strain, — these  will  not  serve  him  less  than  the  books. 

There  is  also  a  negative  value  in  these  arts.  Their  chief  use  to  the 
youth  is  not  amusement,  but  to  be  known  for  what  they  are,  and  not  to 
remain  to  him  occasions  of  heart- burn.  We  are  full  of  superstitions. 
Each  class  fixes  its  eye  on  the  advantages  it  has  not;  the  refined  on 
rude  strength;  the  democrat  on  birth  and  breeding.  One  of  the  bene- 
fits of  college  education  is  to  show  the  boy  its  little  avail.  I  knew  a 
leading  man  in  a  leading  city  who,  having  set  his  heart  on  an  education 
at  the  university,  and  missed  it,  could  never  quite  feel  himself  the  equal 
of  liis  own  brothers  who  had  gone  thither. 

His  easy  superiority  to  multitudes  of  professional  men  could  never 
quite  countervail  to  him  this  imaginary  defect.  Balls,  riding,  wine- 
parties,  and  billiards  pass  to  a  poor  boy  for  something  fine  and  roman- 
tic, which  they  are  not ;  and  a  free  admission  to  them  on  an  equal  foot- 
ing, if  it  were  possible,  only  once  or  twice,  would  be  worth  ten  times  its 
cost  by  undeceiving  him. 

I  am  not  much  an  advocate  for  travelling,  and  I  observe  that  men 
run  away  to  other  countries,  because  they  are  not  good  in  their  own,  and 
run  back  to  their  own,  because  they  pass  for  nothing  in  the  new  places. 
For  the  most  part,  only  the  light  characters  travel.  Who  are  you  that 
have  no  task  to  keep  you  at  home?  I  have  been  quoted  as  saying  cap- 
tious things  about  travel ;  but  I  mean  to  do  justice.  I  think  there  is  a 
restlessness  in  our  people  which  argues  want  of  character.  All  edu- 
cated Americans,  first  or  last,  go  to  Europe ;  perhaps,  because  it  is  their 
mental  home,  as  the  invalid  habits  of  this  country  might  suggest.  An 
eminent  teacher  of  girls  said,  "  The  idea  of  a  girl's  education  is  what- 
ever qualifies  them  for  going  to  Europe."  Can  we  never  extract  this 
tapeworm  of  Europe  from  the  brain  of  our  countrymen?  One  sees 
very  well  what  their  fate  must  be.  He  that  does  not  fill  a  place  at 
home  cannot  abroad.  He  only  goes  there  to  hide  his  insignificance  in  a 
larger  crowd.  You  do  not  think  you  will  find  anything  there  which  you 
have  not  seen  at  home?    The  stuff  of  all  countries  is  just  the  same. 


Prose — Mmerson's.  361 


Do  you  suppose  there  is  any  country  where  they  do  not  scald  milk-pans 
and  swaddle  the  infants  and  burn  the  brushwood  and  broil  the  fish? 
What  is  true  anywhere  is  true  everywhere.  And  let  him  go  where  he 
will,  he  can  only  find  so  much  beauty  or  worth  as  he  carries. 

Cities  give  us  collision.  'Tis  said  London  and  New  York  take  the 
nonsense  out  of  a  man.  A  great  part  of  our  education  is  sympathetic 
and  social.  Boys  and  girls  who  have  been  brought  up  with  well-in- 
formed and  superior  people  show  in  their  manners  an  inestimable  grace. 
J'ulier  says,  "  William,  Earl  of  Nassau,  won  a  subject  from  the  King 
of  Spain  every  time  he  put  off  his  hat."  You  cannot  have  one  well- 
bred  man  without  a  whole  society  of  such.  They  keep  each  other  up 
to  any  high  point.  Especially  women;  it  requires  a  good  many  culti- 
vated women, — saloons  of  bright,  elegant,  reading  women,  accustomed 
to  ease  and  refinement,  to  spectacles,  pictures,  sculpture,  poetry,  and  to 
elegant  society,  in  order  that  you  should  have  one  Madame  de  Stafil. 
The  head  of  a  commercial  house,  or  a  leading  lawyer  or  politician,  is 
brought  into  daily  contact  with  troops  of  men  from  all  parts  of  the 
country,  and  those  too  the  driving-wheels,  the  business  men  of  each 
section;  and  one  can  hardly  suggest  for  an  apprehensive  man  a  more 
searching  culture.  Besides,  we  must  remember  the  high  social  possi- 
bilities of  a  million  of  men.  The  best  bribe  which  London  offers  to- 
day to  the  imagination  is,  that,  in  such  a  vast  variety  of  people  and 
conditions,  one  can  believe  there  is  room  for  persons  of  romantic  char- 
acter to  exist,  and  that  the  poet,  the  mystic,  and  the  hero  may  hope  to 
confront  their  counterparts. 

The  fossil  strata  show  us  that  Nature  began  with  rudimental  forms, 
and  rose  to  the  more  complex  as  fast  as  the  earth  was  fit  for  their  dwell- 
ing-place; and  that  the  lower  perish  as  the  higher  appear.  Very  few  of 
our  race  can  be  said  to  be  yet  finished  men.  We  still  carry,  sticking  to 
us,  some  remains  of  the  preceding  inferior  quadruped  organization.  We 
call  these  millions  men;  but  they  are  not  yet  men.  Half -engaged  in  the 
soil,  pawing  to  get  free,  man  needs  all  the  music  that  can  be  brought  to 
disengage  him.  If  Love,  red  Love,  with  tears  and  joy,  if  Want  with 
his  scourge,  if  War  with  his  cannonade,  if  Christianity  with  its 
charity,  if  Trade  with  its  money,  if  Art  with  its  portfolios,  if  Science 
with  her  telegraphs  through  the  deeps  of  space  and  time,  can  set  his 
dull  nerves  throbbing,  and,  by  loud  taps  on  the  tough  chrysalis,  can 
break  its  walls  and  let  the  new  creature  emerge  erect  and  free— make 
way,  and  sing  psean!  The  age  of  the  quadruped  is  to  go  out,  the  age 
of  the  brain  and  of  the  heart  is  to  come  in.  The  time  will  come  when 
the  evil  forms  we  have  known  can  no  more  be  organized. 


362       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


Ameeican  Pkose. — Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  born 
July  4,  1804,  at  Salem,  Mass.,  and  graduated  at  Bowdoin 
College  in  1825.  Went  to  Boston  in  1836  and  edited  the 
American  Magazine.  First  series  of  Twice-told  Tales  appeared 
in  1837,  and  the  second  series  in  1842.  Mosses  from  an  Old 
Manse  in  1846.  Was  surveyor  of  the  port  of  Salem  1846-50. 
Wrote  there  The  Scarlet  Letter.  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables  appeared  in  1851,  and  The  Blithedale  Romance  in 
1852.  U.  S.  consul  at  Liverpool  1853-7.  The  Snow  Image 
appeared  in  1852,  and  The  Marhle  Faun  in  1860.  Published 
other  works.     Died  at  Plymouth,  N.  H.,  1864. 

'•  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  is  the  longest  of  his  three  American 
novels;  it  is  tlie  most  elaborate,  and,  in  the  judgment  of  some  persons, 
it  is  the  finest.  It  is  a  rich,  delightful,  imaginative  work,  larger  and 
more  various  than  its  companions,  and  full  of  all  sorts  of  deep  inten- 
tions, of  interwoven  threads  of  suggestion.  If  it  be  true  of  the  others, 
that  the  pure  natural  quality  of  the  imaginative  strain  is  their  great 
merit,  this  is  at  least  as  true  of  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  the  charm 
of  which  is,  in  a  peculiar  degree,  of  the  kind  that  we  fail  to  reduce  to 
its  grounds — like  that  of  the  sweetness  of  a  piece  of  music,  or  the  soft- 
ness of  fine  September  weather.  It  is  vague,  indefinable,  ineffable;  but 
it  is  the  sort  of  thing  we  must  always  point  to  in  justification  of  the  high 
claims  that  we  make  for  Hawthorne.  .  .  . 

Hawthorne  was  a  beautiful,  natural,  original  genius,  and  his  life  had 
been  singularly  exempt  from  worldly  preoccupations  and  vulgar  efforts. 
It  had  been  as  pure,  as  simple,  as  unsophisticated,  as  his  work.  He  had 
lived  primarily  in  his  domestic  affections,  which  were  of  the  tenderest 
kind;  and  then — without  eagerness,  without  pretension,  but  with  a  great 
deal  of  quiet  devotion — in  his  charming  art.  His  work  will  remain;  it 
is  too  original  and  exquisite  to  pass  away;  among  the  men  of  imagina- 
tion he  will  always  have  his  niche.  No  other  one  has  had  just  that 
vision  of  life,  and  no  one  has  had  a  literary  form  that  more  success- 
fully expressed  his  vision.  He  was  not  a  moralist,  and  he  was  not  simply 
a  poet.  The  moralists  are  weightier,  denser,  richer,  in  sense;  the  poets 
are  more  purely  inconclusive  and  irresponsible.  He  combined,  in  a  sin- 
gular degree,  the  spontaneity  of  the  imagination  with  a  haunting  care 
for  moral  problems.  Man's  conscience  was  his  theme,  but  he  saw  it  in 
the  light  of  a  creative  fancy,  which  added,  out  of  its  own  substance,  an 
interest,  and,  I  may  almost  say,  an  importance." — Henry  Jame&,  Jr. 


Prose — Hawthorne's.  863 


From  Hawthorne's  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables. 

The  Pyncheon  Hens. — One  of  the  available  means  of  amusement,  of 
which  Phoebe  made  the  most,  in  Clifford's  behalf,  was  that  feathered 
society,  the  hens,  a  breed  of  whom,  as  we  have  already  said,  was  an  im- 
memorial heirloom  in  the  Pyncheon  family.  In  compliance  with  a  whim 
of  Clifford's,  as  it  troubled  him  to  see  them  in  confinement,  they  had 
been  set  at  liberty,  and  now  roamed  at  will  about  the  garden ;  doing 
some  little  mischief,  but  hindered  from  escape  by  buildings  on  three 
sides,  and  the  difficult  peaks  of  a  wooden  fence  on  the  other.  They 
spent  much  of  their  abundant  leisure  on  the  margin  of  Maule's  well, 
which  was  haunted  bj'a  kind  of  snail,  evidently  a  tidbit  to  their  palates; 
and  the  brackish  water  itself,  however  nauseous  to  the  rest  of  the  world, 
was  so  greatly  esteemed  by  these  fowls  that  they  might  be  seen  tasting, 
turning  up  their  heads,  and  smacking  their  bills,  with  precisely  the  air 
of  wine-bibbers  round  a  probationary  cask.  Their  generally  quiet,  yet 
often  brisk  and  constantly  diversified,  talk,  one  to  another,  or  some- 
times in  soliloquy, — as  they  scratched  worms  out  of  the  rich  black  soil, 
or  pecked  at  such  plants  as  suited  their  taste, — had  such  a  domestic  tone 
that  it  was  almost  a  wonder  why  you  could  not  establish  a  regular  in- 
terchange of  ideas  about  household  matters,  human  and  gallinaceous. 
All  hens  are  well  worth  studying  for  the  piquancy  and  rich  variety  of 
their  manners;  but  by  no  possibility  can  there  have  been  other  fowls  of 
such  odd  appearance  and  deportment  as  these  ancestral  ones.  They 
probably  embodied  the  traditionary  peculiarities  of  their  whole  line  of 
progenitors,  derived  through  an  unbroken  succession  of  eggs;  or  else 
this  individual  Chanticleer  and  his  two  wives  had  grown  to  be  humor- 
ists, and  a  little  crack-brained  withal,  on  account  of  their  solitary  way 
of  life,  and  out  of  sympathy  for  Hepzibah,  their  lady-patroness. 

Queerly,  indeed,  they  looked.  Chanticleer  himself,  though  stalking 
on  two  stilt-like  legs,  with  the  dignity  of  interminable  descent  in  all  his 
gestures,  was  hardly  bigger  than  an  ordinary  partridge ;  his  two  wives 
were  about  the  size  of  quails;  and,  as  for  the  one  chicken,  it  looked  small 
enough  to  be  still  in  the  agg,  and,  at  the  same  time,  sufficiently  old, 
withered,  wizened,  and  experienced  to  have  been  the  founder  of  the 
antiquated  race.  Instead  of  being  the  youngest  of  the  family,  it  rather 
seemed  to  have  aggregated  into  itself  the  ages  not  only  of  these  living 
specimens  of  the  breed  but  of  all  its  forefathers  and  foremothers,  whose 
united  excellences  and  oddities  were  squeezed  into  its  little  body.  Its 
mother  evidently  regarded-  it  as  the  one  chicken  of  the  world,  and  as 
necessary,  in  fact,  to  the  world's  continuance,  or,  at  any  rate,  to  the 


364       LUercUitrc  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


equilibrium  of  the  present  system  of  affairs,  whether  in  church  or  state. 
No  lesser  sense  of  the  infant  fowl's  importance  could  have  justified, 
even  in  a  mother's  eyes,  the  perseverance  with  which  she  watched  over 
its  safety,  ruffling  her  small  person  to  twice  its  proper  size,  and  flying  in 
everybody's  face  that  so  much  as  looked  towards  her  hopeful  progeny. 
No  lower  estimate  could  have  vindicated  the  indefatigable  zeal  with 
which  she  scratched,  and  her  unscrupulousness  in  digging  up  the  choicest 
flower  or  vegetable,  for  the  sake  of  the  fat  earth-worm  at  its  root.  Her 
nervous  cluck,  when  the  chicken  happened  to  be  hidden  in  the  long 
grass  or  under  the  squash-leaves;  her  gentle  croak  of  satisfaction,  while 
sure  of  it  beneath  her  wing;  her  note  of  ill-concealed  fear  and  obstrep- 
erous defiance,  when  she  saw  her  arch-enemy,  a  neighbor's  cat,  on  the 
Itop  of  the  high  fence ; — one  or  other  of  these  sounds  was  to  be  heard  at 
almost  every  moment  of  the  day.  By  degrees  the  observer  came  to  feel 
nearly  as  much  interest  in  this  chicken  of  illustrious  race  as  the  mother- 
hen  did. 

Phoebe,  after  getting  well  acquainted  with  the  old  hen,  was  sometimes 
permitted  to  take  the  chicken  in  her  hand,  which  was  quite  capable  of 
grasping  its  cubic  inch  or  two  of  body.  While  she  curiously  examined 
its  hereditary  marks, — the  peculiar  speckle  of  its  plumage,  the  funny 
tuft  on  its  head,  and  a  knob  on  each  of  its  legs, — the  little  biped,  as  she 
insisted,  kept  giving  her  a  sagacious  wink.  The  daguerreotypist  once 
whispered  her  that  these  marks  betokened  the  oddities  of  the  Pyncheon 
family,  and  that  the  chicken  itself  was  a  symbol  of  the  life  of  the  old 
house,  embodying  its  interpretation  likewise,  although  an  unintelligible 
one,  as  such  clews  generally  are.  It  was  a  feathered  riddle;  a  mystery 
hatched  out  of  an  Qgg,  and  just  as  mysterious  as  if  the  egg  had  been  addle ! 

The  second  of  Chanticleer's  two  wives,  ever  since  Phoebe's  arrival,  had 
been  in  a  state  of  heavy  despondency,  caused,  as  it  afterwards  appeared, 
by  her  inability  to  lay  an  egg.  One  day,  however,  by  lier  self-important 
gait,  the  side-way  turn  of  her  head,  and  the  cock  of  her  eye,  as  she  pried 
into  one  and  another  nook  of  the  garden, — croaking  to  herself  all  the 
while  with  inexpressible  complacency, — it  was  made  evident  that  this 
identical  hen,  much  as  mankind  undervalued  her,  carried  something 
about  her  person,  the  worth  of  which  was  not  to  be  estimated  either  in 
gold  or  precious  stones.  Shortly  after,  there  was  a  prodigious  cackling 
and  gratulation  of  Chanticleer  and  all  his  family,  including  the  wizened 
chicken,  who  appeared  to  understand  the  matter  quite  as  well  as  did  his 
sire,  his  mother,  or  his  aunt.  That  afternoon  Phoebe  found  a  diminu- 
tive egg — not  in  the  regular  nest,  it  was  far  <too  precious  to  be  trusted 
there — but  cunningly  hidden  under  the  currant-bushes,  on  some  dry 


Prose — Hawthorne's.  36o 


stalks  of  last  year's  grass.  Hepzibali,  on  learning  the  fact,  took  posses- 
sion of  the  egg  and  appropriated  it  to  Clifford's  breakfast,  on  account  of 
a  certain  delicacy  of  flavor,  for  which,  as  she  affirmed,  these  eggs  had 
always  been  famous.  Thus  unscrupulously  did  the  old  gentlewoman 
sacrifice  the  continuance,  perhaps,  of  an  ancient  feathered  race,  with  no 
better  end  than  to  supply  her  brother  with  a  dainty  that  hardly  filled  the 
bowl  of  a  teaspoon!  It  must  have  been  in  reference  to  this  outrage  that 
Chanticleer,  the  next  day,  accompanied  by  the  bereaved  mother  of  the 
egg,  took  his  post  in  front  of  Phoebe  and  Clifford,  and  delivered  himself 
of  a  harangue  that  might  have  proved  as  long  as  his  own  pedigree,  but 
for  a  fit  of  merriment  on  Phoebe's  part.  Hereupon  the  offended  fowl 
stalked  away  on  his  long  stilts,  and  utterly  withdrew  his  notice  from 
Phoebe  and  the  rest  of  human  nature,  until  she  made  her  peace  with  an 
offering  of  spice-cake,  which,  next  to  snails,  was  the  delicacy  most  in 
favor  with  his  aristocratic  taste. 

We  linger  too  long,  no  doubt,  beside  this  paltry  rivulet  of  life  that 
flowed  through  the  garden  of  the  Pyncheon-house.  But  we  deem  it 
pardonable  to  record  these  mean  incidents  and  poor  delights,  because 
they  proved  so  greatly  to  Clifford's  benefit.  They  had  the  earth-smell 
in  them,  and  contributed  to  give  him  health  and  substance.  Some  of 
his  occupations  wrought  less  desirabl}'  upon  him.  He  had  a  singular 
propensity,  for  example,  to  hang  over  Maule's  well,  and  look  at  the 
constantly  shifting  phantasmagoria  of  figures  produced  by  the  agitation 
of  the  water  over  the  mosaic- work  of  colored  pebbles  at  the  bottom. 
He  said  that  faces  looked  upward  to  him  there — beautiful  faces,  arrayed 
in  bewitching  smiles, — each  momentary  face  so  fair  and  rosy  and  every 
smile  so  sunny  that  he  felt  wronged  at  its  departure,  until  the  same 
flitting  witchcraft  made  a  new  one.  But  sometimes  he  would  sud- 
denly cry  out,  "  The  dark  face  gazes  at  me!"  and  be  miserable  the  whole 
day  afterwards.  Phoebe,  when  she  hung  over  the  fountain  by  Clifford's 
side,  could  see  nothing  of  all  this — neither  the  beauty  nor  the  ugliness — 
but  only  the  colored  pebbles,  looking  as  if  the  gush  of  the  water  shook 
and  disarranged  them.  And  the  dark  f;ice,  that  so  troubled  Clifford, 
was  no  more  than  the  shadow  thrown  from  a  branch  of  one  of  the  dam- 
son-trees, and  breaking  the  inner  light  of  Maule's  well.  The  truth  was, 
however,  that  his  fancy — reviving  faster  than  his  will  and  judgment, 
and  always  stronger  than  they — created  shapes  of  loveliness  that  were 
symbolic  of  his  native  character,  and  now  and  then  a  stern  and  dreadful 
shape,  that  typified  his  fate. 


me       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 . 

LiESSOlSr   58. 

Poetry.— The  French  Revolution  and  the  Poets.— 

"  Certain  ideas  relating  to  Mankind,  considered  as  a  whole,  had 
been  growing  up  in  Europe  for  more  than  a  century,  and  we 
have  seen  their  influence  on  the  work  of  Cowper  and  Burns. 
These  ideas  spoke  of  natural  rights  that  belonged  to  every 
man  and  which  united  all  men  to  one  another.  All  men  were 
by  right  equal  and  free  and  brothers.  There  was,  therefore, 
only  one  class,  the  class  of  Man;  only  one  nation,  the  nation 
of  Man,  of  which  all  were  equal  citizens.  All  the  old  divisions 
therefore  which  wealth  and  rank  and  class  and  caste  and  na- 
tional boundaries  had  made  were  put  aside  as  wrong  and  use- 
less. 

Such  ideas  had  been  for  a  long  time  expressed  by  France  in 
her  literature.  They  were  now  waiting  to  be  expressed  in  ac- 
tion, and,  in  the  overthrow  of  the  Bastille  in  1789,  and  in  the 
proclamation  of  the  new  Constitution  in  the  following  year, 
France  threw  them  abruptly  into  popular  and  political  form. 

Immediately  they  became  living  powers  in  the  world,  and 
it  is  round  the  excitement  they  kindled  in  England  that  the 
work  of  the  poets  from  1790  to  1830  can  best  be  grouped. 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Southey  accepted  them  with  joy, 
but  receded  from  them  when  they  ended  in  the  violence  of 
the  Eeign  of  Terror  and  in  the  imperialism  of  Napoleon. 
Scott  hated  them,  and,  in  disgust  at  the  present,  turned  to 
write  of  the  romantic  past.  Byron  did  not  express  them  them- 
selves, but  he  expressed  the  whole  of  the  revolutionary  spirit 
in  its  action  against  old  social  opinions.  Shelley  took  them  up 
after  the  reaction  against  them  had  begun  to  die  away,  and 
re-expressed  them.  Two  men,  Rogers  and  Keats,  were  wholly 
untouched  by  them.  One  special  thing  they  did  for  poetry. 
By  the  powerful  feelings  they  kindled  in  men,  they  brought 
back  passion  into  its  style,  into  all  its  work  about  Man,  and 
through  that,  into  its  work  about  nature. 


Poetry — Crabhe^  Coleridge^  and  Others.       367 

George  Crabbe  took  up  the  side  of  the  poetry  of  Man  which 
had  to  do  with  the  lives  of  the  poor,  in  the  Village,  1783,  and 
in  the  Parish  Register,  1807.  In  tlie  short  tales  related  in 
these  books  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  the  sternest  pic- 
tures of  humble  life,  its  sacrifices,  temptations,  righteousness, 
love,  and  crimes.  The  prison,  the  workliouse,  the  hospital, 
and  the  miserable  cottage  are  all  sketched  with  a  truthfulness 
perhaps  too  unrelenting,  and  the  effect  of  this  poetry  in  widen- 
ing human  sympathies  was  very  great.  The  Borough  and 
Tales  i?i  Verse  followed,  and  finally  the  Tales  of  the  Hall  in 
1819.  His  work  wanted  the  humor  of  Cowper,  and,  though 
often  pathetic  and  always  forcible,  was  too  forcible  for  pure 
pathos.  His  work  on  Nature  is  as  minute  and  accurate,  but 
as  limited  in  range  of  excellence,  as  his  work  on  Man. 

I  may  mention  here  in  connection  with  the  poetry  of  the 
poor,  the  work  of  Robert  Bloomfield,  himself  a  poor  shoe- 
maker. The  Farmer's  Bog,  1798,  and  the  Eiiral  Tales  are 
poems  as  cheerful  as  Crabbe's  were  stern,  and  his  descriptions 
of  rural  life  are  brighter  and  not  less  faithful.  The  kind  of 
poetry  thus  started  long  continued  in  our  verse.  Wordsworth 
took  it  up  and  added  to  it  new  features,  and  Thomas  Hood 
in  short  pieces,  like  the  Song  of  the  Shirt,  gave  it  a  direct  bear- 
ing on  social  evils. 

Robert  Southey,  1774-1843,  began  his  poetical  life  with 
the  revolutionary  poem  of  Wat  Tyler,  1794;  ^nd  between  1802 
and  1814  wrote  Thalaha,  Madoc,  Tlie  Curse  of  KeJiama,  and 
Roderick  the  Last  of  the  Goths.  His  Vision  of  Judgment, 
written  on  the  death  of  George  III.,  and  ridiculed  by  Byron 
in  another  Vision,  proves  him  to  have  become  a  Tory  of 
Tories. 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge,  1752-1834,  could  not  turn  round 
so  completely,  but  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  his  early  poems  was 
lessened  when  in  1796  he  wrote  the  Ode  to  the  Departing  Year 
and  the  Ode  to  France,  poems  which  nearly  reach  sublimity. 
When  France,  however,  ceasing  to  be  the  champion  of  freedom. 


368        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


attacked  Switzerland,  Coleridge  as  well  as  Wordsworth  ceased 
to  believe  in  her,  and  fell  back  on  the  old  English  ideas  of 
patriotism  and  of  tranquil  freedom.  Still  the  disappointment 
was  bitter,  and  the  Ode  to  Dejection  is  instinct  not  only  with 
his  own  wasted  life  but  with  the  sorrow'of  one  who  has  had 
golden  ideals,  and  has  found  them  turn  in  his  hands  to  clay. 
His  best  work  is  but  little,  but  of  its  kind  it  is  perfect  and 
unique.  For  exquisite  music  of  metrical  movement  and  for 
an  imaginative  phantasy,  such  as  might  belong  to  a  world 
where  men  always  dreamt,  there  is  nothing  in  our  language  to 
be  compared  with  Christ ahel  and  Kiibla  Klian  and  to  the 
Ancient  Mariner,  published  as  one  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  in 
1798.  The  little  poem  called  Love  is  not  so  good,  but  it 
touches  with  great  grace  that  with  which  all  sympathize.  All 
that  he  did  excellently  might  be  bound  up  in  twenty  pages,  but 
it  should  be  bound  in  pure  gold." 

*'  The  main  phenomenon  of  Coleridge's  poetic  life  is  not,  as  with  most 
poets,  the  gradual  development  of  a  poetic  gift,  determined,  enriched, 
retarded  by  the  circumstances  of  the  poet's  life,  but  the  sudden  blossom- 
ing, through  ore  short  season,  of  such  a  gift  already  perfect  in  its  kind, 
which  thereafter  deteriorates  as  suddenly,  with  something  like  premature 
old  age.  Christahel  and  the  Ancient  Mariner  belong  to  the  great  year  of 
Coleridge's  poetic  production,  his  twenty -fifth  year,  1797-8.  In  poetic 
quality,  above  all  in  that  most  poetic  of  all  qualities,  a  keen  sense  of  and 
delight  in  beauty,  the  infection  of  which  lays  hold  upon  the  reader,  they 
are  quite  out  of  proportion  to  all  his  other  composition. 

It  is  in  a  highly  sensitive  apprehension  of  the  aspects  of  external  nature 
that  Coleridge  identifies  himself  most  closely  with  one  of  the  main  ten- 
dencies of  the  '  Lake  School ;'  a  tendency  instinctive,  and  no  mere  mat- 
ter of  theory,  in  him  as  in  Wordsworth.  There  is  yet  one  other  sort  of 
sentiment,  connected  with  the  love  of  outward  nature,  in  which  be  is  at 
one  with  that  school,  yet  all  himself — his  sympathy  with  the  animal 
world. 

Coleridge's  verse,  with  the  exception  of  his  avowedly  political  poems, 
is  singularly  unaffected  by  any  moral  or  professional  or  personal  effort 
and  ambition,  written,  as  he  says,  after  the  more  violent  emotions  of  sor- 
row, to  give  him  pleasure  when  perhaps  nothing  else  could,  but  coming 
thus,  indeed,  very  close  to  his  own  most  intimately  personal  character- 


Poetry — WordsworW  s.  ^  369 

istics,  and  having  a  certain  languidly  soothing  grace  or  cadence  for  its 
most  fixed  quality  from  first  to  last." — Walter  H.  Pater. 

Bibliography.  Southey.— Southey's  I/i/e  and  Corresp.  of;  De  Quincey's  Assays; 
Howitt's  Homes  of  Brit.  Poets;  W.  S.  and  R.  J.  Austin's  Poets-Laureate;  Ward's 
Anthology;  Quar.  Rev.  v.  98,  1856;  Eel.  Mag.,  May  and  July,  1850,  and  Dec,  1873. 

Coleridge:— P.  Bayne's  Essays;  De  Quincey's  Essays;  Hazlitt's  Lit.  Remains; 
J.  S.  Mill's  Dissertations  and  Discussions;  J.  C.  Shairp's  Studies  in  Poetry  and 
Philos.;  J.  A.  Hart's  Camb.  Essays;  Ward's  Anthology;  Black.  Mag.,  v.  110, 1871; 
Harper's  Mo.,  vs.  14  and  39;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  43,  1865;  Quar.  Rev.,  JvUy,  1868;  West. 
Rev.,  vs.  85,  93,  and  94. 

Reading.— r/ie  Village  and  The  Ancient  Mariner,  in  pamphlet,  by  Clark  and 
Maynard. 


HiESSOisr  59. 

WOEDSWOETH. — ''  Of  all  the  poets,  misnamed  Lake  Poets, 
William  Wordsworth  was  the  greatest.  Born  in  1770,  edu- 
cated on  the  banks  of  Esthwaite,  he  loved  the  scenery  of  the 
Lakes  as  a  boy,  lived  among  it  in  his  manhood,  and  died  in 
1850  at  Rydal  Mount,  close  to  Rydal  lake.  He  took  his  degree 
in  1791  at  Cambridge.  The  year  before,  he  had  made  a  short 
tour  on  the  Continent,  and  stepped  on  the  French  shore  at 
the  very  time  when  the  whole  land  was  '  mad  with  joy.'  The 
end  of  1791  saw  him  again  in  France  and  living  at  Orleans. 
He  threw  himself  eagerly  into  the  Revolution,  joined  the 
*  patriot  side,'  and  came  to  Paris  just  after  the  September 
massacre  of  1792.  Narrowly  escaping  the  fate  of  his  friends, 
the  Brissotins,  he  got  home  to  England  before  the  execution 
of  Louis  XVI.  in  1793,  and  published  his  Descriptive  Sketches. 
His  sympathy  with  the  French  continued,  and  he  took  their 
side  against  his  own  country,  hating  the  war  that  England 
now  set  on  foot  against  France. 

He  was  poor,  but  his  friend  Raisley  Calvert  left  him  £900, 
and  enabled  him  to  live  the  simple  life  he  had  now  chosen, 
the  life  of  a  retired  poet.  At  first  we  find  him  at  Racedown, 
where  in  1797  he  made  friendship  with  Coleridge,  and  then 
at  Alfoxden,  in  Somerset,  where  he  and  Coleridge  planned  and 
published  in  1798  the  Lyrical  Ballads.     After  a  winter  in 


370       Literature  of  Period  VIII.,  1789 


Germany  with  Coleridge,  where  the  Prelude  was  begun,  he 
took  a  small  cottage  at  Grasniere,  and  there  in  1805-6  finished 
the  Prelude,  not  published  till  1850.  -Another  set  of  the 
Lyrical  Ballads  appeared  in  1802,  and  in  1814  his  philosophi- 
cal poem,  the  Excursion,  From  that  time  till  his  death  he 
produced  from  his  home  at  Eydal  Mount  a  great  succession  of 
poems. 

WOEDSWORTH  AND  NATURE.— The  Prelude  is  the  history 
of  Wordsworth's  poetical  growth  from  a  child  till  1806.  It 
reveals  him  as  the  poet  of  Nature  and  of  Man.  His  view  of 
Nature  was  entirely  different  from  that  which  up  to  his  time 
'the  poets  had  held.  They  had  believed  that  the  visible  uni- 
verse was  dead  matter  set  in  motion  like  a  machine  and  regu- 
lated by  fixed  laws.  Wordsworth,  on  the  contrary,  said  that 
it  was  alive.  There  is  a  soul,  he  said,  in  all  the  worlds ;  *  an 
active  principle  subsists '  in  Nature. 

This  soul  of  Nature  was  entirely  distinct  from  the  mind 
of  man,  and  acted  upon  it.  It  had  powers  of  its  own,  de- 
sires, feelings,  and  thought  of  its  own,  and  by  these  it 
gave  education,  impulses,  comfort,  and  joy  to  the  man 
who  opened  his  heart  to  receive  them.  The  human  mind 
receiving  these  impressions,  reflected  on  them  and  added  to 
them  its  own  thoughts  and  feelings,  and  that  union  of  the 
mind  of  man  to  the  mind  in  Nature  then  took  place  which 
Wordsworth  thought  the  true  end  of  the  pre-arranged  har- 
mony he  conceived  between  Nature  and  Humanity.  This  is 
the  idea  which  runs  through  all  his  poetry,  and  one  thing 
especially  followed  from  it,  that  he  was  the  first  who  loved 
Nature  with  a  personal  love.  He  could  do  that  because  he 
did  not  mix  up  Nature  with  his  own  mind,  nor  make  her  the 
reflection  of  himself,  nor  look  upon  her  as  dead  matter.  She 
was  a  person  to  him,  distinct  from  himself,  and  therefore 
capable  of  being  loved  as  a  man  loves  a  woman.  He  could 
brood  on  her  character,  her  ways,  her  words,  her  life,  as  he 
did  on  those  of  his  wife  or  sister.     Hence  arose  his  minute 


Poetry — Wordsworth^  s.  371 


and  loving  observation  of  her  and  his  passionate  description 
of  all  her  forms.  There  was  nothing,  from  the  daisy's  *  star- 
shaped  shadow  on  the  naked  stone '  to  the  vast  landscape  seen 
at  sunrise  from  the  mountain  top,  that  he  did  not  describe, 
that  he  has  not  made  us  love. 

Wordsworth  and  Man. — We  have  seen  the  vivid  interest 
that  Wordsworth  took  in  the  new  ideas  about  man  as  they 
were  shown  in  the  French  Revolution.  But  even  before  that 
he  relates  in  the  Prelude  how  he  had  been  led  through  his 
love  of  Nature  to  honor  Man.  The  shepherds  of  the  Lake 
hills,  the  dalesmen,  had  been  seen  by  him  as  part  of  the  wild 
scenery  in  which  he  lived,  and  he  mixed  up  their  life  with  the 
grandeur  of  Nature  and  came  to  honor  them  as  part  of  her 
being.  The  love  of  Nature  led  him  to  the  love  of  Man.  It 
was  exactly  the  reverse  order  to  that  of  the  previous  poets. 
At  Cambridge  and  afterwards  in  the  crowd  of  London  and  in 
his  first  tour  on  the  Continent,  he  received  new  impressions  of 
the  vast  world  of  Man,  but  Nature  still  remained  the  first. 
It  was  only  during  his  life  in  France  and  in  the  excitement  of 
the  new  theories  and  their  activity  that  he  was  swept  away 
from  Nature,  and  found  himself  thinking  of  Man  as  distinct 
from  her,  and  first  in  importance. 

But  the  hopes  he  had  formed  from  the  Revolution  broke 
down.  All  his  dreams  about  a  new  life  of  man  were  made 
vile  when  France  gave  up  liberty  for  Napoleon;  and  he  was 
left  without  love  of  Nature  or  care  for  Man.  It  was  then  that 
his  sister  Dorothy,  herself  worthy  of  mention  in  a  history  of 
literature,  led  him  back  to  his  early  love  of  Nature  and  restored 
his  mind.  Living  quietly  at  Grasmere,  he  sought  in  the  sim- 
ple lives  of  the  dalesmen  round  him  for  the  foundations  of  a 
truer  view  of  mankind  than  the  theories  of  the  Revolution 
afforded.  And  in  thinking  and  writing  of  the  common  duties 
and  faith,  kindnesses  and  truth  of  lowly  men,  he  found  in 
Man  once  more 

*  an  object  of  delight, 
Of  pure  imagiuation  and  of  love.* 


87^       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789  - — . 

With  that  he  recovered  also  his  interest  m  the  larger  move- 
ments of  mankind.  His  love  of  liberty  and  hatred  of  oppression 
revived.  He  saw  in  Napoleon  the  enemy  of  man.  A  whole 
series  of  sonnets  followed  the  events  on  the  Continent.  One 
recorded  his  horror  at  the  attack  on  the  Swiss,  another  mourned 
the  fate  of  Venice,  another  the  fate  of  Toussaint  the  negro 
chief,  others  celebrated  the  struggle  of  Hofer  and  the  Tyrolese, 
others  the  struggle  of  Spain.  Two  thanksgiving  odes  rejoiced 
in  the  overthrow  of  the  oppressor  at  Waterloo. 

He  became  conservative  in  his  old  age,  but  his  interest  in 
social  and  national  movements  did  not  decay.  He  wrote  on 
Education,  the  Poor  Laws,  and  other  subjects.  When  almost 
seventy  he  took  the  side  of  the  Carbonari,  and  sympathized 
with  the  Italian  struggle.  He  was  truly  a  poet  of  Mankind. 
But  his  chief  work  was  done  in  his  own  country  and  among 
his  own  folk;  and  he  was  the  first  who  threw  around  the  lives 
of  homely  men  and  women  the  glory  and  sweetness  of  song, 
and  taught  us  to  know  the  brotherhood  of  all  men  in  a  more 
beautiful  way  than  the  wild  way  of  the  Eevolution.  He  lies 
asleep  now  among  the  people  he  loved,  in  the  green  church- 
yard of  Grasmere,  by  the  side  of  the  stream  of  Eothay,  in  a 
place  as  quiet  as  his  life.  Few  spots  on  earth  are  more  sacred 
than  his  grave. 

Criticism  must  needs  confess  that  much  of  his  work  is  pro- 
saic in  thought,  but  the  form  of  it  is  always  poetic;  that  is, 
the  thoughts  are  expressed  in  a  way  prose  never  would  express 
them.  His  theory  about  poetic  diction,  that  it  should  be  the 
ordinary  language  men  use  in  strong  emotion,  may  seem  to 
contradict  this;  but,  as  Coleridge  has  shown,  Wordsworth  did 
not  practice  his  theory,  and  where  he  did  the  result  was  not 
poetry.  His  style  in  blank- verse  is  the  likest  to  Milton's  that 
we  possess,  but  it  is  more  feminine  than  Milton's.  He  is  like 
Milton  also  in  this,  that  he  excelled  in  the  Sonnet,  which  we 
may  say  he  restored  to  modern  poetry.  Along  with  the  rest 
of  all  the  poets  of  the  time  he  revived  old  measures  and  in- 


Poetry — WordswortK  s.  373 

vented  new.  His  philosophy  of  Nature  we  have  explained; 
his  human  philosophy,  of  which  the  Excursion  is  the  best 
example,  was  no  deeper  than  a  lofty  and  grave  morality  cre- 
ated, in  union  with  an  imaginative  Christianity.  He  believed 
in  himself  when  all  the  world  disbelieved  in  him,  and  he  has 
been  proved  right  and  the  world  wrong." 

"  What  was  special  in  Wordsworth  was  the  penetrating  power  of  his 
perceptions  of  poetical  elements,  and  his  fearless  reliance  on  the  simple 
forces  of  expression  in  contrast  to  the  more  ornate  ones.  He  had  an  eye 
to  see  these  elements  where  I  will  not  say  no  one  had  seen  or  felt  them, 
but  where  no  one  appears  to  have  recognized  that  he  had  seen  or  felt 
them.  He  saw  that  the  familiar  scene  of  human  life — nature  as  affect- 
ing human  life  and  feeling,  and  man  as  the  fellow-creature  of  nature  but 
also  separate  and  beyond  it  in  faculties  and  destiny — had  not  yet  rendered 
up  even  to  the  mightiest  of  former  poets  all  that  they  had  in  them  to 
touch  the  human  heart.  And  he  accepted  it  as  his  mission  to  open  the 
eyes  and  widen  the  thoughts  of  his  countrymen,  and  to  teach  them  to 
discern  in  the  humblest  and  most  unexpected  forms  the  presence  of  what 
was  kindred  to  what  they  had  long  recognized  as  the  highest  and  greatest. 

Of  a;ll  poets  who  ever  wrote,  Wordsworth  made  himself  most  avow- 
edly the  subject  of  his  own  thinking.  In  one  way  this  gives  special 
interest  and  value  to  his  work.  But  this  habit  of  perpetual  self-study, 
though  it  may  conduce  to  wisdom,  does  not  always  conduce  to  life  or 
freedom  of  movement.  It  spreads  a  tone  of  individuality  and  appa- 
rent egotism,  which,  though  very  subtle  and  undefinable,  is  yet  felt  even 
in  some  of  his  most  beautiful  compositions.  We  miss  the  spirit  of  aloof- 
ness and  self-forgetfulness,  which,  whether  spontaneous  or  the  result  of 
the  highest  art,  marks  the  highest  types  of  poetry."  —B.  W.  Church. 

"  It  is  important  to  hold  fast  to  this:  poetry  is  at  bottom  a  criticism 
of  life ;  the  greatness  of  a  poet  lies  in  his  powerful  and  beautiful  appli- 
cation of  ideas  to  life, — to  the  question.  How  to  live.  Wordsworth  deals 
with  life,  because  he  deals  with  that  in  which  life  really  consists.  Words- 
worth deals  with  it,  and  his  greatness  lies  in  his  dealing  with  it  so  power- 
fully. His  superiority  to  other  poets  is  here — he  deals  with  more  of  life 
than  they  do,  deals  with  life,  as  a  whole,  more  powerfully. 

Wordsworth's  poetry  is  great,  because  of  the  extraordinary  power 
with  which  he  feels  the  joy  offered  to  us  in  nature,  the  joy  offered  to  us 
in  the  simple  primary  affections  and  duties;  and  because  of  the  extra- 
ordinary power  with  which,  in  case  after  case,  he  shows  us  this  joy,  and 
renders  it  so  as  to  make  us  share  it.    The  source  of  joy  from  which  ho 


374        Literature  of  Period  VIII.,  1789 


thus  draws  is  the  truest  and  most  unfailing  source  of  joy  accessible  to 
man.     It  is  also  accessible  universally. 

Wordsworth  has  no  style.  Every  one  who  has  any  sense  for  these 
things  feels  the  subtle  turn,  the  heightening,  which  is  given  to  a  poet's 
verse  by  his  genius  for  style.  We  can  feel  it  in  the  *  After  life's  fitful 
fever,  he  sleeps  well,'  of  Shakespeare.  Wordsworth  was  too  conversant 
with  Milton  not  to  catch  at  times  his  master's  manner,  and  he  has  fine 
Miltonic  lines;  but  he  has  no  assured  poetic  style  of  his  own.  Nature 
herself  seems  to  take  the  pen  out  of  his  hand,  and  to  write  for  him  with 
her  own  bare,  sheer,  penetrating  power.  This  arises  from  the  profound 
sincereness  with  which  Wordsworth  feels  his  subject,  and  also  from  the 
profoundly  sincere  and  natural  character  of  his  subject  itself.  He  can 
and  will  treat  such  a  subject  with  nothing  but  the  most  plain,  first  hand, 
almost  austere  naturalness.  His  expression  may  often  be  bald,  but  it  is 
bald  as  the  bare  mountain-tops  are  bald,  with  a  baldness  which  is  full 
of  grandeur." — Matthew  Arnold. 

Bibliography.  Wordsworth.— C.  Wordsworth's  Memoirs  of;  W.  S.  and  R.  J 
Austin's  Poets-Laureate;  De  Quincey's  Essays;  Field's  Yesterdays  with  Authors;  H. 
Giles'  nius.  of  Genius;  Howitt's  Hovies  of  Brit.  Poets;  Lowell's  ^mongr  my  5oofcs,  2d 
Ser.;  Whipple's  Characteristics  of  Men  of  Genius,  his  Essays  and  Reviews,  and  his 
Lit.  and  Life;  F.  W.  Robertson's  Lectures  and  Addresses;  J.  C.  Shairp's  Studies 
in  Poetry;  Ward's  Anthology;  M.  Arnold's  Preface  to  his  Ed.  of  W.'s  Poems ;  J.  Wil- 
son's Essays;  Black.  Mag.,  v.  110,  1871;  Fort.  Rev.,  Apr.,  1874;  MacmUIan,  Nov.,  1860, 
and  Aug.,  1873;  N.  A.  Rev,,  v.  100,  1865;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  92,  1853;  Temple  Bar,  Feb., 
1872;  Eel.  Mag.,  Apr.,  1853;  March  and  Apr.,  1865;  Oct.,  1876;  and  Jan.  and  Oct. 
18S0. 


Lesson  60. 

Wordsworth's  TJie  Solitary  Bearer. 
Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 

Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself;' 

Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 

O  listen!  for  the  vale  profound 

Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chant 
So  sweetly  to  reposing  bands 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt 
Among  Arabian  sands : 


Poetry —  WordsworW  s.  375 

A  voice  80  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago ; 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay> 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 

As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work 

And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 
I  listened  till  I  had  my  fill. 
And,  when  I  mounted  up  the  hill. 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

From  Wordsworth's  Michael. 

Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There  dwelt  a  shepherd,  Michael  was  his  name, 
An  old  man,  stout  of  heart  and  strong  of  limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength ;  his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs. 
And  in  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all  winds, 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone ;  and,  oftentimes. 
When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  South 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 
The  shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would  say, 
"  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me." 
And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm,  that  drives 


376        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


The  traveller  to  a  shelter,  summoned  him 

Up  to  the  mountains:  he  had  been  alone 

Amid  tlie  heart  of  many  thousand  mists, 

That  came  to  him  and  left  him  on  the  heights. 

So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past. 

And  grossly  that  man  errs  who  should  suppose 

That  the  green  valleys  and  tiie  streams  and  rocks 

Were  things  indifferent  to  the  shepherd's  thoughts. 

Fields,  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had  breathed 

The  common  air;  the  hills,  which  he  so  oft 

Had  climbed  with  vigorous  steps;  which  had  impressed 

So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 

Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear; 

Which,  like  a  book,  preserved  the  memory 

Of  the  dumb  animals,  whom  he  had  saved, 

Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts 

The  certainty  of  honorable  gain ; — 

Those  fields,  those  hills— what  could  they  less?  had  laid 

Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 

A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love, 

The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 

His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  singleness. 
His  helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old — 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty  years 
She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life. 
Whose  heart  was  in  her  house :  two  wheels  she  had 
Of  antique  form,  this  large  for  spinning  wool, 
That  small  for  flax;  and,  if  one  wheel  had  rest 
It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 
The  pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house. 
An  only  child,  w^ho  had  been  born  to  them 
When  Michael,  telling  o'er  his  years,  began 
To  deem  that  he  was  old, — in  shepherd's  phrase 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave.     This  only  son. 
With  two  brave  sheep-dogs,  tried  in  many  a  storm. 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 
Made  all  their  household.     I  may  truly  say 
That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 
For  endless  industry.     When  day  was  gone, 
And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 
The  son  and  father  were  come  home,  even  then 


Poetry —  Wordsworth-  s.  877 

Their  labor  did  not  cease;  unless  when  all 

Turned  to  their  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there, 

Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed  milk,  n 

Sat  round  their  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes. 

And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.     Yet  when  their  mea'i 

Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  son  was  named) 

And  his  old  father  both  betook  themselves 

To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 

Their  hands  by  the  fireside;  perhaps  to  card 

Wool  for  the  housewife's  spindle,  or  repair 

Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe. 

Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 

Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chimney's  edge, 
That  in  our  ancient,  uncouth,  country  style 
Did  with  a  huge  projection  overbrow  ^ 

Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 
Of  day  grew  dim,  the  housewife  hung  a  lamp 
An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 
Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 
Early  at  evening  did  it  burn  and  late. 
Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours, 
Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had  found 
And  left  the  couple  neither  gay,  perhaps, 
Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with  hopes, 
Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 

And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year, 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sat, 
Father  and  son,  while  late  into  the  night 
The  housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work, 
Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 
Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 
This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighborhood. 
And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life 
That  thrifty  pair  had  lived.    For,  as  it  chanced, 
Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 
Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  north  and  south, 
High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmail-Raise, 
And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  Lake; 
And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 
And  so  far  seen,  the  house  itself,  by  all 
Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale, 


378       Literature  of  Period  VIIl.,  1789 


Both  old  and  yoimg,  was  named  The  Evening  Star. 

Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of  years, 
The  shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must  needs 
Have  loved  his  helpmate;  but  to  Michael's  heart 
This  son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear, 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Blind  spirit  which  is  in  the  blood  of  all, 
Than  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts. 
Brings  hope  with  it  and  forward-looking  thoughts 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His  heart  and  his  heart's  joy !    For  oftentimes 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms, 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  boy 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love. 
Albeit  of  a  stern,  unbending  mind, 
To  have  the  young  one  in  his  sight,  when  he 
Had  work  by  his  own  door,  or  when  he  sat 
With  sheep  before  him  on  his  shepherd's  stool 
Beneath  that  large  old  oak,  which  near  their  door 
Stood, — and,  from  its  enormous  breadth  of  shade 
Chosen  for  the  shearer's  covert  from  the  sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  Clipping  Tree,  a  name  which  yet  it  bears. 
There,  while  they  two  were  sitting  in  the  shade, 
With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe. 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 
Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath  the  shears. 

And,  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the  boy  grew  up 
A  healthy  lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old. 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 


Poetry —  Wordsworth^  s,  379 

With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he  hooped 

With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 

Due  requisites  a  perfect  shepherd's  staff. 

And  gave  it  to  the  boy ;  wherewith  equipt, 

He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 

At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock; 

And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called. 

There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine. 

Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help; 

And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe, 

Receiving  from  his  father  hire  of  praise ; 

Though  naught  was  left  undone  which  staff  or  voice 

Or  looks  or  threatening  gestures  coiild  perform. 

But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could  stand 
Against  the  mountain  blasts,  and  to  the  heights. 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  days. 
He  with  his  father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That  objects  which  the  shepherd  loved  before 
Were  dearer  now  ?  that  from  the  boy  there  came 
Feelings  and  emanations — things  which  were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind; 
And  that  the  old  man's  heart  seemed  born  again? 
Thus  in  his  father's  sight  the  boy  grew  up: 
And  now,  when  he  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year. 
He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household  lived 
From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there  came 
Distressful  tidings.     Long  before  the  time 
Of  which  I  speak,  the  shepherd  had  been  bound 
In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 
Of  an  industrious  life  and  ample  means, — 
But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 
Had  prest  upon  him,  and  old  Michael  now 
Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfeiture, 
A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 
Than  half  his  substance.     This  unlooked-for  claim, 
At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 
More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost. 
As  soon  as  he  had  gathered  so  much  strength 


380        Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789  — 

That  he  could  look  his  trouble  in  the  face. 
It  seemed  that  his  sole  refuge  was  to  sell 
A  portioD  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such  was  his  first  resolve;  he  thought  again, 
And  his  heart  failed  him.     "  Isabel,"  said  he, 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  Ihe  news, 
"I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years, 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 
Have  we  all  lived ;  yet,  if  tliese  fields  of  ours 
Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot;  the  sun  himself 
Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I; 
And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 
To  my  own  family.     An  evil  man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us;  and  if  he  were  not  false, 
There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 
Had  been  no  sorrow.     I  forgive  him — but 
'Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 
When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel;  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free; 
He  shall  possess  it,  free  as  is  the  wind 
That  passes  over  it.     We  have,  thou  know'st. 
Another  kinsman,  he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.    He  is  a  prosperous  man, 
Thriving  in  trade,  and  Luke  to  him  shall  go. 
And,  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift. 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
May  come  again  to  us.     If  here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done?    Where  every  one  is  poor, 
What  can  be  gained?" 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a  sheep-fold;  and,  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss. 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's  edge 


Poetry — Wordsworth^  s.  381 

Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 

With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walked; 

And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he  stopped, 

And  thus  the  old  man  spake  to  him: — "My  son, 

To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me:  with  full  heart 

I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 

That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth, 

And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 

I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 

Of  our  two  histories;  'twill  do  thee  good 

When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should  speak 

Of  things  thou  canst  not  know  of.     After  thou 

First  camest  into  the  world — as  oft  befalls 

To  new-born  infants — thou  didst  sleep  away 

Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  father's  tongue 

Then  fell  upon  thee.     Day  by  day  passed  on, 

And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 

Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 

Than  wiien  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fireside 

First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tune; 

When  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 

Sing  at  thy  mother's  breast.     Month  followed  month. 

And  in  the  open  fields  rhy  life  was  passed 

And  on  the  mountains;  else  I  think  that  thou 

Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  father's  knees. 

But  we  were  playmates,  Luke;  among  these  hills, 

As  well  thou  knovvest,  in  us  the  old  and  young 

Have  plaj^ed  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 

Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 

Luke  had  a  manly  heart,  but  at  these  words 

He  sobbed  aloud.     The  old  man  grasped  his  hand, 

And  said,  "Nay,  do  not  take  it  so— I  see 

That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak. 

Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 

A  kind  and  a  good  father;  and  herein 

I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 

Received  at  others'  hands ;  for,  though  now  old 

Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 

Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 

Both  of  them  sleep  together:  here  they  lived. 

As  all  their  forefathers  had  done;  and  when 


B8S       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not  loth 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 

I  wished  that  thou  shouldst  live  the  life  they  lived. 

But,"  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  son, 

And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  years. 

These  fields  were  burthened  when  they  came  to  me; 

Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 

Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 

I  toiled  and  toiled;  God  blessed  me  in  my  work. 

And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was  free. 

It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 

Another  master.     Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 

If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 

That  thou  shouldst  go."    At  this  the  old  man  paused; 

Then,  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which  they  stood. 

Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed : — 

**  This  was  a  work  for  us,  and  now,  my  son, 

It  is  a  work  for  me.     But,  lay  one  stone — 

Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own  hands, 

Nay,  boy,  be  of  good  hope,  we  both  may  live 

To  see  a  better  day.     At  eighty-four 

I  still  am  strong  and  hale ; — do  thou  thy  part, 

I  will  do  mine.     I  will  begin  again 

With  many  tasks  that  were  resigned  to  thee : 

Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms, 

Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 

All  works  which  J  was  wont  to  do  alone, 

Before  I  knew  thy  face.     Heaven  bless  thee,  boy! 

Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating  fast 

With  many  hopes.     It  should  be  so — yes — ^yes — . 

I  knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a  wish 

To  leave  me,  Luke;  thou  hast  been  bound  to  m& 

Only  by  links  of  love:  when  thou  art  gone 

What  will  be  left  to  us!— But,  I  forget 

My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone. 

As  I  requested;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 

When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 

Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  son. 

And  of  this  moment;  hither  turn  thy  thoughts 

And  God  will  strengthen  thee:  amid  all  fear 

And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 

Mayst  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  fathers  lived 


Poetry —  WordsioorW  s.  388 

Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.     Now,  fare  thee  well — 
When  thou  returnest,  thou  in  tliis  place  wilt  see 
A  work  which  is  not  here:  a  covenant 

'Twill  be  between  us But,  whatever  fate 

Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last. 

And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave." 

The  shepherd  ended  here;  and  Luke  stooped  down, 
And,  as  his  father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  sheep-fold.     At  the  sight 
The  old  man's  grief  broke  from  him;  to  his  heart 
He  pressed  his  son,  he  kissed  him  and  wept; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 
Hushed  was  that  house  in  peace,  or  seeming  peace. 
Ere  the  night  fell: — with  morrow's  dawn  the  boy 
Began  his  journey,  and  when  he  had  reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face ; 
And  all  the  neighbors,  as  he  passed  their  doors. 
Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell  prayers, 
That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A  good  report  did  from  their  kinsman  come, 
Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing:  and  the  boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news. 
Which,  as  the  housewife  phrased  it,  were  throughout 
"  The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 
Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 
So,  many  months  passed  on,  and  once  again 
The  shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts;  and  now 
Sometimes,  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour, 
He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought  at  the  sheep-fold.     Meantime  Luke  began 
To  slacken  in  his  duty;  and,  at  length. 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses :  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love; 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the  heart. 
I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 
Remember  the  old  man,  and  what  he  was 


384        Literature  of  Period  VII I. ,  1789 -, 

Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength.     Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  towards  the  sun, 
And  listened  to  the  wind ;  and,  as  before, 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labor  for  his  sheep, 
And  for  the  land,  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair  to  build  the  fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need.     'Tis  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  old  man,  and  'tis  believed  by  all 
That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither  went, 
And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 

There,  b}''  the  sheep-fold,  sometimes  was  he  seen 
Sitting  alone,  with  that  his  faithful  dog, 
Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time  to  time, 
He  at  the  building  of  this  sheep-fold  wrought. 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 
Three  years  or  little  more  did  Isabel 
Survive  her  husband;  at  her  death  the  estate 
Was  sold  and  went  into  a  stranger's  hand. 
The  cottage  which  was  named  the  Evening  Star 
Is  gone,  the  ploughshare  has  been  through  the  ground 
On  which  it  stood;  great  changes  have  been  wrought 
In  all  the  neighborhood: — yet  the  oak  is  left 
That  grew  beside  their  door;  and  the  remains 
Of  the  unfinished  sheep-fold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll. 

Further  Reading.— Jnhmaf ions  of  Immortality  in  the  Rhetoric;  and  The  Ex- 
cursion, Bk.  I.,  in  pamphlet,  by  Clark  &  Maynard. 

Lessoist  61. 

Sir  Waltee  Scott.—''  Scott  was  Wordsworth's  dear  friend, 
and  his  career  as  a  poet  began,  1805,  when  Wordsworth  first 
came  to  Grasmere,  with  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  Mar- 
mion  followed  in  1808,  and  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  in  1810. 
These  were  his  best  poems;  the  others,  with  the  exception  of 


Poetry — Scott,  Campbell,  and  Others,         385 

some  lyrics  which  touch  the  sadness  and  the  brightness  of  life 
with  equal  power,  do  not  count  in  our  estimate  of  him.  He 
perfected  the  narrative  poem.  In  Marmion  and  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake,  his  wonderful  inventiveness  in  narration  is  at  its 
height,  and  it  is  matched  by  the  vividness  of  his  natural  de- 
scription. No  poet,  and  in  this  he  carries  on  the  old  Scotch 
quality,  is  a  finer  colorist.  His  landscapes  are  painted  in  color, 
and  the  color  is  always  true.  Nearly  all  his  natural  descrip- 
tion is  Scotch,  and  he  was  the  first  who  opened  to  the  delight 
of  the  world  the  wild  scenery  of  the  Highlands  and  the  Low- 
land moorland.  He  touched  it  all  with  a  pencil  so  light, 
graceful,  and  true  that  the  very  names  are  made  for  ever 
romantic.'* 

' '  Looking  to  the  poetic  side  of  his  character,  the  trumpet  certainly 
would  have  been  the  instrument  that  would  have  best  symbolized  the 
spirit  both  of  Scott's  thought  and  of  his  verses.  His  is  almost  the  only 
poetry  in  the  English  language  that  heats  the  head  in  which  it  runs,  by 
the  mere  force  of  its  hurried  frankness  of  style,  to  use  Scott's  own 
terms,  or  by  that  of  its  strong  and  pithy  eloquence,  as  Campbell  phrased 
it.  Scott  prefers  action  itself  for  his  subject  to  any  feeling  howevej 
active  in  its  bent.  There  is  no  rich  music  in  his  verse,  it  is  its  rapic* 
onset,  its  hurrying  strength  which  fixes  it  in  the  mind.  Marmion  was 
composed,  in  great  part,  in  the  saddle,  and  the  stir  of  a  charge  of  cavalry 
seems  to  be  at  the  very  core  of  it.  The  hurried  tramp  of  his  somewhat 
monotonous  metre  is  apt  to  weary  the  ears  of  men  who  do  not  find  their 
sufficient  happiness,  as  he  did,  in  dreaming  of  the  wild  and  daring  en- 
terprises of  his  loved  Border-land." — Richard  H.  Button. 

Campbell. — '*  Scotland  produced  another  poet  in  Thomas 
Campbell.  His  earliest  poem,  the  Pleasures  of  Hope,  1799, 
belonged,  in  its  formal  rhythm  and  rhetoric  and  in  its  artificial 
feeling  for  Nature,  to  the  time  of  Thomson  and  Gray  rather 
than  to  the  newer  time.  His  later  poems,  such  as  Gertrude 
of  Wyoming  and  0'  Connofs  Child,  were  far  more  natural,  but 
they  lost  the  superb  rhetoric  so  remarkable  in  the  Pleasures 
of  Hope.  Campbell  will  chiefly  live  by  his  lyrics.  Hohen- 
linden,  the  Battle  of  the  Baltic,  the  Mariners  of  England  are 


386       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,17S9  . 

splendid  specimens  of  the  war  poetry  of  England;  and  the 
Song  to  the  Evening  Star  and  Lord  Ullin^s  DaugJiter  are  full 
of  tender  feeling,  and  mark  the  influence  of  the  more  natural 
style  that  Wordsworth  had  brought  to  perfection. 

ROGEES  AND  MoORE. — Samuel  Eogers  is  another  poet 
whose  work  is  apart  from  the  great  movement  of  the  Eevolu- 
tion.  In  his  long  life  of  ninety  years  he  produced  two  octayo 
volumes.  The  Pleasures  of  Memory ,  1792,  his  first  poem, 
links  him  to  the  past  generation  and  has  its  characters.  The 
later  poems,  added  to  it  in  1812,  and  the  Italy,  1822,  are  the 
work  of  a  slow  and  cultivated  mind,  and  contain  some  labored 
but  fine  descriptions.  The  curious  thing  is,  that,  living  apart 
in  a  courtly  region  of  culture,  there  is  not  a  trace  in  all  his 
work  that  Europe  and  England  and  society  had  passed  during 
his  life  through  a  convulsion  of  change. 

To  that  convulsion  the  best  work  of  Thomas  Moore,  an 
Irishman,  may  be  referred.  Ireland  during  Moore's  youth 
endeavored  to  exist  under  the  dreadful  and  wicked  weight  of 
its  Penal  Code.  The  excitement  of  the  French  Kevolution 
kindled  the  anger  of  Ireland  into  the  rebellion  of  1798,  and 
Moore's  genius,  such  as  it  was,  into  writing  songs  to  the  Irish 
airs  collected  in  1796.  The  best  of  these  have  for  their 
hidden  subject  the  struggle  of  Ireland  against  England.  They 
went  everywhere  with  him  into  society,  and  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  they  helped  by  the  interest  they  stirred  to  further 
Catholic  Emancipation.  Moore's  Oriental  tales  in  Lalla  RookJi 
are  chiefly  flash  and  glitter,  but  they  are  pleasant  reading. 
He  had  a  slight,  pretty,  rarely  true,  lyrical  power,  and  all  the 
songs  have  this  one  excellence,  they  are  truly  things  to  be 
sung." 

Bibliography.  Campbell.— Bedding's  Lif.  Reminis.  andilfemoirs  of;  Chambers' 
Papers  for  the  People;  Hazlitt's  Spirit  of  the  Age;  W.  Irving's  Spanish  Papers  and 
other  Miscel.;  Ward's  Anthology;  Eel.  Mag.,  March  and  May,  1849;  July,  1851, 

Moore. — Russell's  Memoirs,  Journal  and  Cor.  of;  V/ard's  Anthology;  Bent. 
Miscel.,  Apr.,  1852;  Black.  Mag.,  vs.  71  and  72,  1852;  Ed.  Rev.,  v.  99;  Eel.  Mag.,  v.  26, 

1852,  and  28,  1853;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v.  76,  1853:  Quar.  Rev.   v.  93,  1853;  West.  Rev.  v.  60, 

1853,  and  67, 1857. 


Poetry — CampheWs.  387 


Campbell's  Ye  Mariners  of  England. 

Ye  Mariners  of  England, 

That  guard  our  native  seas ; 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep. 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave: 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell. 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain- waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

She  quells  the  floods  below, — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall  yet  terrific  burn ; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 
And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors! 
Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 


^8S       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


To  the  fame  of  your  name, 
When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more. 
And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

Campbell's  Lord  UUin's  Daughter, 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound,  cries,  "Boatman,  do  not  tarry! 

And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound  to  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"Now,  who  be  ye  would  cross  Lochgyle,   this  dark  and  stormy 

water?" 
"Oh,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle,  and  this,  Lord  Ullin's  daughter; 
And  fast  before  her  father's  men  three  days  we've  fled  together; 
For,  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen,  my  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 
His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride ;  should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride  when  they  have  slain  her  lover?" 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight,  "  I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  ready; 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright,  but  for  your  winsome  lady ; 

And,  by  my  word,  the  bonny  bird  in  danger  shall  not  tarry; 

So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white,  I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry. " 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace,  the  water-wraith  was  shrieking. 

And  in  the  scowl  of  Heaven  each  face  grew  dark  as  they  were  speak- 
ing. 

But  still,  as  wilder  blew  the  wind,  and  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  arm^d  men,  their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"Oh!  haste  thee,  haste!"  the  lady  cries,  "  though  tempests  round  us 
gather ; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies,  but  not  an  angry  father," 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land,  a  stormy  sea  before  her. 

When,  oh!  too  strong  for  human  hand,  the  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  rowed  amid  the  roar  of  waters  fast  prevailing : 

Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore,  his  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shade,  his  child  he  did  dis- 
cover; 

One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid,  and  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Come  back!  come  back!"  he  cried  in  grief,  "across  this  stormy 
water, 

And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief,  my  daughter — O  my  daughter!" 

'Twas  vain:  the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore,  return  or  aid  preventing ; 

The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child,  and  he  was  left  lamenting. 


Poetry — Moore's,  389 


Moore's  The  Meeting  of  tTie  Waters. 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  tiiat  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet; 
Ohl  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green ; 
'Twas  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill — 
Oh  no!  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

'Twas  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca!  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  best! 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should  cease, 

And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace! 

Further  Reading.— Canto  I.  of  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  selections  from 
Canto  VI.  of  Marmion  and  from  Parts  I.  and  II.  of  The  Fire-Worshippers,  and 
abridgment  of  Pleasures  of  Hope,  in  pamphlet,  by  Clark  &  Maynard. 

Lesson  63. 

Btbon. — "  We  turn  to  very  different  types  of  men  when  we 
come  to  Lord  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats.  Childe  Harold, 
cantos  i.  and  ii.,  Byron's  first  true  poem,  appeared  in  1812, 
Shelley's  Queen  Mah  in  1813,  Keats'  first  volume  in  1817. 

Of  the  three,  Lord  Byron  had  most  of  the  quality  we  may 
call  force.  Born  in  1788,  his  Hours  of  Idleness,  a  collection 
of  short  poems,  in  1807,  was  mercilessly  lashed  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review.  The  attack  only  served  to  awaken  his  genius, 
and  he  replied  with  astonishing  vigor  in  the  satire  of  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  in  1809.  Eastern  travel  gave 
birth  to  the  first  two  cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  to  the  Giaour 
and  the  Bride  of  Ahydos  in  1813,  to  the  Corsair  and  Lara  in 
1814.     The  Siege  of  Corinth,  Parisina,  the  Prisoner  of  ChiU 


390        Literature  of  Period  VI IL,  1789 


Ion,  Manfred,  and  CMlde  Harold  were  finished  before  1819. 
In  1818  he  began  a  new  style  in  Beppo,  which  he  developed 
fully  in  the  successive  issues  of  Do7i  Juan,  1819-1823.  Dur- 
ing this  time  a  number  of  dramas  came  from  him,  partly  his- 
torical, as  his  Marino  Faliero,  partly  imaginative,  as  the  Cai7i, 
His  life  had  been  wild  and  useless,  but  he  died  in  trying  to 
redeem  it  for  the  sake  of  the  freedom  of  Greece.  At  Misso- 
longhi  he  was  seized  with  fever,  and  passed  away  in  April, 
1824. 

The  position  of  Byron  as  a  poet  is  a  curious  one.  He  is 
partly  of  the  past  and  partly  of  the  present.  Something  of 
the  school  of  Pope  clings  to  him ;  in  CMlde  Harold  he  imi- 
tates Spenser,  yet  no  one  more  completely  broke  away  from 
old  measures  and  old  manners  to  make  his  poetry  individual, 
not  imitative.  At  first,  he  has  no  interest  whatever  in  the 
human  questions  which  were  so  strongly  felt  by  Wordsworth 
and  Shelley.  His  early  work  is  chiefly  narrative  poetry,  writ- 
ten that  he  might  talk  of  himself  and  not  of  mankind.  Nor 
has  he  any  philosophy  except  that  which  centres  round  the 
problem  of  his  own  being.  Cam,  the  most  thoughtful  of  his 
productions,  is  in  reality  nothing  more  than  the  representa- 
tion of  the  way  in  which  the  doctrines  of  original  sin  and  final 
reprobation  affected  his  own  soul. 

We  feel  naturally  great  interest  in  this  strong  personality, 
put  before  us  with  such  obstinate  power,  but  it  wearies  at 
last.  Finally  it  wearied  himself.  As  he  grew  in  thought,  he 
escaped  from  his  morbid  self,  and  ran  into  the  opposite 
extreme  in  Don  Juan.  It  is  chiefly  in  it  that  he  shows  the 
influence  of  the  revolutionary  spirit.  It  is  written  in  bold 
revolt  against  all  the  conventionality  of  social  morality  and 
religion  and  politics.  It  claimed  for  himself  and  for  others 
absolute  freedom  of  individual  act  and  thought  in  opposition 
to  that  force  of  society  which  tends  to  make  all  men  after  one 
pattern.  This  was  the  best  result  of  his  work,  though  the 
way  in  which  it  was  done  can  scarcely  be  approved.     He  es* 


Poetry — Byron,  391 


caped  still  more  from  his  diseased  self  when,  fully  seized  on 
by  the  new  spirit  of  setting  men  free  from  oppression,  he  sac- 
rificed his  life  for  the  deliverance  of  Greece. 

As  tlie  poet  of  Nature  he  belongs  also  to  the  old  and  to  the 
new  school.  We  have  mentioned  those  poets  before  Cowper 
who  had  less  a  sympathy  with  Nature  than  a  sympathy  with 
themselves  as  they  forced  her  to  reflect  them,  men  who  fol- 
lowed the  vein  of  Eousseau,  Byron's  poetry  of  natural  de- 
scription is  often  of  this  class.  But  he  also  escapes  from  this 
position  of  the  18th  century  poets,  and  with  those  of  the  19th 
looks  on  Nature  as  she  is,  apart  from  himself;  and  this  es- 
cape is  made,  as  in  the  case  of  his  poetry  of  Man,  in  his  later 
poems.  Lastly,  it  is  his  colossal  power  and  the  ease  that 
comes  from  it,  in  which  he  resembles  Dryden,  that  marks  him 
specially.  But  it  is  always  power  of  the  intellect  rather  than 
that  of  the  imagination." 

"  Scarce  a  page  of  Byron's  verse  even  aspires  to  perfection;  hardly  a 
stanza  will  bear  the  minute  word-by- word  dissection  which  only  brings 
into  clearer  view  the  delicate  touches  of  Keats  or  Tennyson ;  his  pic- 
tures with  a  big  brush  were  never  meant  for  the  microscope.  '  I  can 
never  recast  anything.  I  am  like  the  tiger;  if  I  miss  the  first  spring, 
I  go  grumbling  back  to  my  jungle.'  No  one  else — except,  perhaps, 
Wordsworth — who  could  write  so  well,  could  also  write  so  ill.  His  best 
inspirations  are  spoilt  by  the  interruption  of  incongruous  commonplace. 
He  had  none  of  the  guardian  delicacy  of  taste,  or  the  thirst  after  com- 
pleteness which  marks  the  consummate  artist. 

Southern  critics  have  maintained  that  he  had  a  southern  nature,  and 
was  in  his  true  element  on  the  Lido  or  under  an  Ahdalusian  night. 
Others  dwell  on  the  English  pride  that  went  along  with  his  Italian  hab- 
its and  Greek  sympathies.  The  truth  is,  he  had  the  power  of  making 
himself  poetically  everywhere  at  home ;  and  this,  along  with  the  fact  of 
all  his  writings  being  perfectly  intelligible,  is  the  secret  of  his  European 
influence. 

This  scion  of  a  long  line  of  lawless  bloods — a  Scandinavian  Berserker, 
if  there  ever  was  one — the  literary  heir  of  the  Eddas — was  specially  cre- 
ated to  smite  the  conventionality  which  is  the  tyrant  of  England  with 
the  hammer  of  Thor,  and  to  sear  with  the  sarcasm  of  Mephistopheles 
the  hollow    hypocrisy — sham    taste,  sham  morals,   sham  religion — of 


392        Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


the  society  by  which  he  was  surrounded  and  infected,  and  which  all 
but  succeeded  in  seducing  him.  His  greatness,  as  well  as  his  weakness, 
lay  in  the  fact  that  from  boyhood  battle  was  the  breath  of  his  being. 
To  tell  him  not  to  fight  was  like  telling  Wordsworth  not  to  reflect,  or 
Shelley  not  to  sing.  His  instrument  is  a  trumpet  of  challenge;  and  he 
lived,  as  he  appropriately  died,  in  the  progress  of  an  unaccomplished 
campaign." — John  Nicfiol. 

"  His  personality  inspires  no  love  like  that  which  makes  the  devotees 
of  Shelley  as  faithful  to  the  man  as  they  are  loyal  to  the  poet.  His  in- 
tellect, though  robust  and  masculine,  is  not  of  the  kind  to  which  we 
willingly  submit.  As  a  man,  as  a  thinker,  as  an  artist,  he  is  out  of  har- 
mony with  us.  Nevertheless,  nothing  can  be  more  certain  than  Byron's 
commanding  place  in  English  literature.  He  is  the  only  British  poet  of 
the  nineteenth  century  who  is  also  European;  nor  will  the  lapse  of  time 
fail  to  make  his  greatness  clearer  to  his  fellow-countrymen,  when  a  just 
critical  judgment  finally  dominates  the  fluctuations  of  fashion  to  which 
he  has  been  subject.  "—J.  A.  Symonda. 

Bibliography.  Byron.— T.  Moore's  Letters  and  Journals  of;  H.  Giles'  Lectures 
and  Essays;  Macaulay's  Essays;  Eng.  Men  of  Let.  Series  ;  Ward's  Anthology; 
Whipple's  Charac.  of  Men  of  Genius,  and  Essays  and  Reviews;  Howitt's  Homes  and 
Haunts  of  Brit.  Poets;  J.  Morley's  Crit.Miscel;  J.  FageVs  Paradoxes;  Fras.  Mag., 
V.  80,  1869;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  127,  1869;  West.  Rev.,  v.  69,  1858;  Eel.  Mag.,  Jan.  and  Oct., 
1872;  and  Nov.,  1880. 

Byron's  Napoleon's  Farewell. 

Farewell  to  the  Land  where  the  gloom  of  my  Glory 

Arose  and  o'ershadow'd  the  earth  with  her  name — 
She  abandons  me  now,  but  the  page  of  her  story. 

The  brightest  or  blackest,  is  filled  with  my  fame. 
I  have  warr'd  with  a  world  which  vanquish'd  me  only 

When  the  meteor  of  conquest  allured  me  too  far ; 
I  have  coped  with  the  nations  which  dread  me  thus  lonely — 

The  last  single  captive  to  millions  in  war. 

Farewell  to  thee,  France!  when  thy  diadem  crown'd  me^ 

I  made  thee  the  gem  and  the  wonder  of  earth, — 
But  thy  weakness  decrees  I  should  leave  as  1  found  thee, 

Decay'd  in  thy  glory,  and  sunk  in  thy  worth. 
Oh !  for  the  veteran  hearts  that  were  wasted 

In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were  won — 
Then  the  eagle,  whose  gaze  in  that  moment  was  blasted, 

Had  still  soar'd  with  eyes  fix'd  on  victory's  sun! 


Toetry— Byron's,  39B 


Farewell  to  thee,  France ! — but  when  Liberty  rallies 

Once  more  in  thy  regions,  remember  me  then. 
The  violet  still  grows  in  the  depth  of  thy  valleys; 

Though  wither'd,  thy  tear  will  unfold  it  again. 
Yet,  yet,  I  may  baffle  the  hosts  that  surround  us. 

And  yet  may  thy  heart  leap  awake  to  my  voice — 
There  are  links  which  must  break  in  the  chain  that  has  bound  us, 

Then  turn  thee,  and  call  on  the  Chief  of  thy  choice  1 

From  CMde  Harold— An  August  Evening  in  Italy. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night — 

Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her, — a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 

Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains;  Heaven  is  free 

From  clouds,-  but  of  all  colors  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 

Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity; 

While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 

Floats  through  the  azure  air — an  island  of  the  blest  1 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 

With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven:  but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 

Roird  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhaetian  hill. 

As  Day  and  Night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaim'd  her  order : — gently  flows 

The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose, 
Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glassed  within  it  glows. 

Filled  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar. 

Comes  down  upon  the  waters;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star. 

Their  magical  variety  diffuse : 

And  now  they  change;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains;  parting  day 

Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away. 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till—'tis  gone— and  all  is  gray. 


394        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


From  Parisina. 

It  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs 

The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard; 
It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper'd  word; 
And  gentle  winds  and  waters  near 
Make  music  to  tlie  lonely  ear. 
Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 
And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met, 
And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 
And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue. 
And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure. 
So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure, 
Which  follows  the  decline  of  day. 
As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 

But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 

That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall, 

And  it  is  not  to  gaze  on  the  heavenly  light 

That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night; 

And,  if  she  sits  in  Este's  bower, 

'Tis  not  for  the  sake  of  its  full-blown  flower. 

She  listens,  but  not  for  the  nightingale. 

Though  her  ear  expects  as  soft  a  tale. 

There  glides  a  step  through  the  foliage  thick. 

And  her  cheek  grows  pale,  and  her  heart  beats  quick. 

There  whispers  a  voice  through  the  rustling  leaves. 

And  her  blush  returns,  and  her  bosom  heaves; 

A  moment  more,  and  they  shall  meet, 

'Tis  past— her  lover's  at  her  feet. 

From  The  Siege  of  Corinth. 

Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  Morning  from  her  mantle  gray, 

And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day. 

Hark  to  the  trump  and  the  drum 

And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barbarous  horn 

And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  they're  borne, 

And  the  neigh  of  the  steed  and  the  multitude's  hum 

And  the  clash  and  the  shout,"  They  come!  they  come!' 


Poetry — Byron's.  395 


The  horestails  are  pluck'd  from  the  ground,  and  the  sword 

From  its  sheath ;  and  they  form,  and  but  wait  for  the  word. 

Tartar  and  Spahi  and  Turcoman, 

Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van ; 

Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain 

That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain 

When  he  breaks  from  the  town ;  and  none  escape, 

Ag^d  or  young,  in  the  Christian  shape ; 

While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass. 

Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which  they  pass. 

The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein; 

Curved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane; 

White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit; 

The  spears  are  uplifted;  the  matches  are  lit; 

The  cannon  are  pointed,  and  ready  to  roar, 

And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before. 

Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar, 

Alp  at  their  head ;  his  right  arm  is  bare, 

So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar; 

The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post; 

The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 

When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on; 

Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one — 

A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 

A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls. 

God  and  the  prophet — Alia  Hu! 

Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo ! 

' '  There  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  ladder  to  scale ; 

And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how  should  ye  fail? 

He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 

His  heart's  dearest  wish;  let  him  ask  it,  and  have!" 

Thus  uttered  Coumourgi,  the  dauntless  vizier; 

The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear, 

And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire: — 

Silence — hark  to  the  signal — fire  I 


The  rampart  is  won  and  the  spoil  begun 
And  all  but  the  after  carnage  done. 
But  here  and  there,  where  'vantage  ground 
Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found, 


Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


Desperate  groups  of  twelve  or  ten 
Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again — 
With  banded  backs  against  the  wall 
Fiercely  stand,  or,  fighting,  fall. 

There  stood  an  old  man — his  hairs  were  white. 

But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might; 

So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray 

The  dead  before  him,  on  that  day, 

In  a  semicircle  lay; 

Still  he  combated  unwounded, 

Though  retreating,  unsurrounded. 

Many  a  scar  of  former  fight 

Lurk'd  beneath  his  corslet  bright; 

But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore, 

Each  and  all  had  been  ta'en  before : 

Though  aged,  he  was  so  iron  of  limb 

Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him. 

Still  the  old  man  stood  erect. 

And  Alp's  career  a  moment  check'd. 

"Yield  thee,  Minotti;  quarter  take, 

For  thine  own,  thy  daughter's  sake." 

• '  Never,  renegado,  never ! 

Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  forever." 

"  Francesca!  Oh,  my  promised  bride! 

Must  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride?" 

" She  is  safe." — "  Where?  where?" — "In  heaven; 

From  whence  thy  traitor  soul  is  driven — 

Far  from  thee,  and  undefiled." 

Grimly  then  Minotti  smiled. 

As  he  saw  Alp  staggering  bow 

Before  his  words,  as  with  a  blow. 

"  Oh  God!  when  died  she?"— "  Yesternight— 

Nor  weep  I  for  her  spirit's  flight; 

None  of  my  pure  race  shall  be 

Slaves  to  Mahomet  and  thee. 

Come  on!"    That  challenge  is  in  vain — 

Alp's  already  with  the  slain ! 

While  Minotti's  words  were  wreaking 

More  revenge  in  bitter  speaking 


Poetry — Byron's,  397 

Than  his  falchion's  point  had  found 

Had  the  time  allowed  to  wound, 

From  within  the  neighboring  porch 

Of  a  long-defended  church, 

Where  the  last  and  desperate  few 

Would  the  failing  fight  renew, 

The  sharp  shot  dash'd  Alp  to  the  ground. 

Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 

That  crash'd  through  the  brain  of  the  infidel. 

Round  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell. 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold. 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green. 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blown. 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  grew  still! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock- beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale. 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone. 
The  lances  unlif ted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail,  ^ 
And  their  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal, 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord! 


398       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


From  Don  Juan. 

The  isles  of  Greece!  the  isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse. 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  farther  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 

For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations; — all  were  his! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And,  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine. 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 


Poetry— Bhelley.  399 

Must  ice  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah!  no; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come!" 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 
Other  Reading.— Cantos  I  and  II  of  Prophecy  of  Dante  and  the  Prisoner  of 
ChUlon^  in  pamphlet,  by  Clark  &  Maynard. 

Lessoist  63. 

Peecy  Bysshe  Shelley.—"  In  Shelley,  1792-1822,  the 
imagination  is  supreme  and  the  intellect  its  servant.  He  pro- 
duced, while  yet  a  boy,  some  utterly  worthless  tales,  but  soon 
showed  in  Queen  Mob,  1813,  the  influence  of  the  revolution- 
ary era  combined  in  him  with  a  violent  attack  on  the  existing 
forms  of  religion.  The  poem  is  a  poor  one,  but  its  poverty 
prophesies  greatness.  Its  chief  idea  was  the  new  one  that  had 
come  into  literature — the  idea  of  the  destined  perfection  of 
mankind  in  a  future  golden  age.  The  whole  heart  of  Shelley 
was  absorbed  in  this  conception,  in  its  faith,  and  in  the  hopes 
it  stirred.  To  help  the  world  towards  it  and  to  denounce  and 
overthrow  all  that  stood  in  its  way  was  the  object  of  half  of 
Shelley's  poetry.  The  other  half  was  personal,  an  outpouring 
of  himself  in  his  seeking  after  the  perfect  ideal  he  could  not 
find,  and,  sadder  still,  could  not  even  conceive.  Queen  Mah 
is  an  example  of  the  first,  Alastor  of  the  second. 

The  hopes  for  man  with  which  Queen  Mab  was  written 
grew  cold;  he  himself  fell  ill  and  looked  for  death;  the  world 
seemed  chiUed  to  all  the  ideas  he  loved,  and  he  turned  from 
writing  about  mankind  to  describe  in  Alastor  the  life  and 


400        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


wandering  and  death  of  a  lonely  poet.  It  was  himself  he  de- 
scribed, but  Shelley  was  too  stern  a  moralist  to  allow  that  a 
life  lived  apart  from  human  interests  was  a  noble  one,  and  the 
title  of  the  poem  expresses  this.  It  is  Alastor — '  a  spirit  of 
evil,  a  spirit  of  solitude.' 

How  wrong  he  felt  such  a  life  to  be  is  seen  in  his  next  poem, 
the  Revolt  of  Islam,  1817.  He  wrote  it  with  the  hope  that 
men  were  beginning  to  recover  from  the  apathy  and  despair 
into  which  the  failure  of  the  revolutionary  ideas  had  thrown 
them,  and  to  show  them  what  they  should  strive  and  hope  for 
and  destroy.  But  it  is  still  only  a  martyr's  hope  that  the  poet 
possesses.  The  two  chief  characters  of  the  poem,  Laon  and 
Cythna,  are  both  slain  in  their  struggle  against  tyranny,  but 
their  sacrifice  is  to  bring  forth  hereafter  the  fruit  of  freedom. 
The  poem  itself  has  finer  passages  in  it  than  Alastor y  but  as  a 
whole  it  is  inferior  to  it.  It  is  quite  formless.  The  same  year 
Shelley  went  to  Italy,  and  renewed  health  and  the  climate 
gave  him  renewed  power.  Rosalind  and  Helen  appeared,  and, 
in  1818,  Julian  and  Maddalo  was  written.  The  first  tale  cir- 
cles round  a  social  subject  that  interested  him,  the  second  is  a 
familiar  conversation  on  the  story  of  a  madman  in  San  Lazzaro 
at  Venice.  In  it  his  poetry  becomes  more  masculine,  and  he 
has  for  the  first  time  won  mastery  over  his  art. 

The  new  life  and  joy  he  had  now  gained  brought  back  his 
enthusiasm  for  mankind,  and  he  broke  out  into  the  splendid 
lyric  drama  of  Prometheus  Unbound.  Prometheus  bound  on 
his  rock  represents  Humanity  suffering  under  the  reign  of 
Evil  impersonated  in  Jupiter.  Asia,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
drama  separated  from  Prometheus,  is  the  all-pervading  Love 
which  in  loving  makes  the  universe  of  nature.  The  time 
comes  when  Evil  is  overthrown.  Prometheus  is  then  deliv- 
ered and  united  to  Asia;  that  is,  Man  is  wedded  to  the  spirit 
in  Nature,  and  Good  is  all  in  all.  The  fourth  act  is  the  choral 
song  of  the  regenerated  universe.  It  is  the  finest  example  we 
have  of  the  working  out  in  poetry  of  that  idea  of  a  glorious 


Poetry— Shelley.  401 

destiny  for  the  whole  of  Man  which  Cowper  introduced  into 
English  poetry.  The  marriage  of  Asia  and  Prometheus,  of 
Nature  and  Humanity,  the  distinct  existence  of  each  for  that 
purpose,  is  the  same  idea  as  Wordsworth's,  differently  ex- 
pressed; and  Shelley  and  he  are  the  only  two  poets  who  have 
touched  it  philosophically,  Wordsworth  with  most  contem- 
plation, Shelley  with  most  imagination.  Shelley's  poetry 
of  Man  reached  its  height  in  Prometheus  Unboimd,  and  he 
turned  now  to  try  his  matured  power  upon  other  subjects. 
Two  of  these  were  neither  personal  nor  for  the  sake  of  man. 

The  first  was  the  drama  of  the  Cenci,  the  gravest  and  no- 
blest tragedy  since  Webster  wrote,  which  we  possess.  It  is  as 
restrained  in  expression  as  the  previous  poem  is  exuberant;  yet 
there  is  no  other  poem  of  Shelley's  in  which  passion  and  thought 
and  imagery  are  so  wrought  together.  The  second  was  the 
Adonais,  a  lament  for  the  death  of  John  Keats.  It  is  a  poem 
written  by  one  who  seems  a  spirit  about  a  spirit,  belonging  in 
expression,  thought,  and  feeling  to  that  world  above  the  senses 
in  which  Shelley  habitually  lived.  Of  all  this  class  of  poems, 
to  which  many  of  his  lyrics  belong,  EinpsycMdion  is  the  most 
impalpable,  but,  to  those  who  care  for  Shelley's  ethereal  world, 
the  finest,  poem  he  ever  wrote.  No  critic  can  ever  compre- 
hend it;  it  is  the  artist's  poem,  and  all  Shelley's  philosophy  of 
life  is  contained  in  it.  Of  the  same  class  is  the  Witcli  of  Atlas, 
the  poem  in  which  he  has  personified  divine  Imagination  in 
her  work  in  poetry  and  all  her  attendants  and  all  her  doings 
among  men. 

As  a  lyric  poet,  Shelley,  on  his  own  ground,  is  easily  great. 
Some  of  the  lyrics  are  purely  personal;  some,  as  in  the  very 
finest,  the  Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  mingle  together  personal 
feelings  and  prophetic  hopes  for  Man.  Some  are  lyrics  of 
Nature;  some  are  dedicated  to  the  rebuke  of  tyranny  and  the 
cause  of  liberty;  others  belong  to  the  passion  of  love,  and 
others  are  written  on  the  shadows  of  dim  dreams  of  thought. 
They  form  together  the  most  sensitive,  the  most  imaginative. 


402        Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


and  the  most  musical,  but  the  least  tangible,  lyrical  poetry 
we  possess. 

As  the  poet  of  Nature,  he  had  the  same  idea  as  Wordsworth, 
that  Nature  was  alive;  but  while  Wordsworth  made  the  active 
principle  which  filled  and  made  Nature  to  be  Thought,  Shel- 
ley made  it  Love.  As  each  distinct  thing  in  Nature  had  to 
Wordsworth  a  thinking  spirit  in  it,  so  each  thing  had  to  Shel- 
ley a  loving  spirit  in  it;  even  the  invisible  spheres  of  vapor 
sucked  by  the  sun  from  the  forest  pool  had  each  its  indwell- 
ing spirit.  We  feel,  then,  that  Shelley  as  well  as  Wordsworth, 
and  for  a  similar  reason,  could  give  a  special  love  to,  and 
therefore  describe  vividly,  each  thing  he  saw.  He  wants  the 
closeness  of  grasp  of  nature  which  Wordsworth  and  Keats  had, 
but  he  had  the  power  in  a  far  greater  degree  than  they  of  de- 
scribing a  vast  landscape  melting  into  indefinite  distance.  In 
this  he  stands  first  among  English  poets,  and  is  in  poetry  what 
Turner  was  in  landscape  painting. 

Towards  the  end  of  his  life,  his  poetry  became  overloaded 
with  mystical  metaphysics.  What  he  might  have  been  we 
cannot  tell,  for  at  the  age  of  thirty  he  left  us,  drowned  in  the 
sea  he  loved,  washed  up  and  burned  on  the  sandy  spits  near 
Pisa.  His  ashes  lie  beneath  the  walls  of  Eome,  and  Cor  cor- 
diuTYiy  '  Heart  of  hearts,'  written  on  his  tomb,  well  says  what 
all  who  love  poetry  feel  when  they  think  of  him." 

"  As  a  poet,  Shelley  contributed  a  new  quality  to  English  literature — 
a  quality  of  ideality,  freedom,  and  spiritual  audacity  which  severe  crit- 
ics of  other  nations  think  we  lack.  Whether  we  consider  his  minor 
songs,  his  odes,  or  his  more  complicated  choral  dramas,  we  acknowledge 
that  he  was  the  loftiest  and  the  most  spontaneous  singer  of  our  lan- 
guage. In  range  of  power  also  he  was  conspicuous  above  the  rest.  Not 
only  did  he  write  the  best  lyrics  but  the  best  tragedy,  the  best  transla- 
tions, and  the  best  familiar  poems  of  his  century. 

While  his  genius  was  so  varied  and  its  flight  so  unapproached  in  swift- 
ness, it  would  be  vain  to  deny  that  Shelley,  as  an  artist,  had  faults.  The 
most  prominent  of  these  are  haste,  incoherence,  verbal  carelessness,  in- 
completeness, a  want  of  narrative  force,  and  a  weak  hold  on  objective 


Poetry— Shelley's,  403 

realities.  In  his  eager  self-abandonment  to  inspiration,  he  produced 
much  that  is  unsatisfactory  simply  because  it  is  not  ripe.  There  was  no 
defect  of  power  in  him,  but  a  defect  of  patience ;  and  the  final  word  to 
be  pronounced  in  estimating  the  larger  bulk  of  his  poetry  is  the  word 
immature.  Not  only  was  the  poet  young  but  the  fruit  of  his  young 
mind  had  been  plucked  before  it  had  been  duly  mellowed  by  reflection. 
He  did  not  care  enough  for  common  things  to  present  them  with  artistic 
fulness.  He  was  intolerant  of  detail,  and  thus  failed  to  model  with  the 
roundness  that  we  find  in  Goethe's  work.  He  flew  at  the  grand,  the 
spacious,  the  sublime,  and  did  not  always  succeed  in  realizing  for  his 
readers  what  he  had  imagined.  A  certain  want  of  faith  in  his  own 
powers  prevented  him  from  finishing  what  he  began. 

Some  of  these  defects  were  in  a  great  measure  the  correlative  of  his 
chief  quality— ideality.  He  composed  with  all  his  faculties,  mental, 
emotional,  and  physical,  at  the  utmost  strain,  at  a  white  heat  of  intense 
fervor,  striving  to  attain  one  object — the  truest  and  most  passionate  in- 
vestiture for  the  thoughts  which  had  inflamed  his  ever-quick  imagina- 
tion. The  result  is,  that  his  finest  work  has  more  the  stamp  of  some- 
thing natural  and  elemental— the  wind,  the  sea,  the  depth  of  air— than 
of  a  mere  artistic  product.  Plato  would  have  said  the  Muses  filled  this 
man  with  sacred  madness,  and  when  he  wrote,  he  was  no  longer  in  his 
own  control.  There  was,  moreover,  ever-present  in  his  nature  an  effort, ' 
an  aspiration  after  a  better  than  the  best  this  world  can  show  which 
prompted  him  to  blend  the  choicest  products  of  his  thought  and  fancy 
with  the  fairest  images  borrowed  from  the  earth  on  which  he  lived. 
This  persistent  upward  striving,  this  earnestness,  this  passionate  inten- 
sity, this  piety  of  soul,  and  purity  of  inspiration,  give  a  quite  unique 
spirituality  to  his  poems." — John  A.  Symonds. 

Bibliography.  Shelley.— W.  M.  Rossetti's  Memoir  of;  Eng.  Men  of  Let.  Series; 
W.  Bagehot's  Estimates,  etc. ;  De  Quincey's  Essays  on  the  Poets;  Howitt's  Homes 
of  Brit.  Poets;  W&rd's  Anthology;  L.  Hunt's  Memoirs  of  i  J.  L.  Peacock's  Works; 
At.  Mo.,  V.  6,  1860;  and  11,  1863;  Macmillan,  Nov.,  1860;  Black.  Mag.,  r.  Ill,  1812; 
Dub.  U.  Mag.,  V.  67,  1866;  Harper's  Mo.,  v.  38;  Nat.  Rev.,  v.  16,  1863;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v. 
34,  1861;  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  110,  1861;  West  Rev.,  v.  69,  1858;  New  Mo.  Mag.,  vs.  34,  35, 
and  38;  Eel.  Mag.,  May,  1879,  and  Aug.,  1880. 

Shelley's  The  Cloud. 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams;  j 

I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 


404        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  Mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under; 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  Blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers 

Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits; 
In  a  tavern  under  is  fettered  the  Thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills  and  the  crags  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream  under  mountain  or  stream 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile. 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  Sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack 

When  the  morning-star  shines  dead: 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain-crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And,  when  Sunset  may  breathe  from  the  lit  sea  beneath 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love. 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

.  From  t^  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 


Poetry — Shelley's.  405 

That  orb^d  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 
And,  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  Stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer. 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, — 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  Sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  Moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  Stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof; 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair. 

Is  the  million-colored  bow; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  Earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  the  Earth  and  Water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  Sky; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise,  and  unbuild  it  again. 


406       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


LESSOisr  64. 

John  Kea^S.  —  "Keats  lies  near  Shelley,  cut  off  like 
him  ere  his  genius  ripened;  not  so  great,  but  possessing  per- 
haps greater  possibilities  of  greatness;  not  so  ideal,  but  for 
that  very  reason  closer  in  his  grasp  of  nature  than  Shelley. 
In  one  thing  he  was  entirely  different  from  Shelley — he  had  no 
care  whatever  for  the  great  human  questions  which  stirred 
Shelley;  the  present  was  entirely  without  interest  to  him. 
He  marks  the  close  of  that  poetic  movement  which  the  ideas 
of  the  Revolution  in  France  had  started  m  England,  as  Shel- 
ley marks  the  attempt  to  revive  it.  Keats,  finding  nothing 
to  move  him  in  an  age  which  had  now  sunk  into  apathy  on 
these  points,  went  back  to  Greek  and  mediaeval  life  to  find 
his  subjects,  and  established,  in  doing  so,  that  which  has 
been  called  the  literary  poetry  of  England. 

His  first  subject,  after  some  minor  poems  in  1817,  was 
Endymion,  1818,  his  last  Hyperion,  1820.  These,  along  with 
Lamia,  were  poems  of  Greek  life.  Endymion  has  all  the 
faults  and  all  the  promise  of  a  great  poet's  early  work,  and 
no  one  knew  its  faults  better  than  Keats,  whose  preface  is  a 
model  of  just  self-judgment.  Hyperion,  a  fragment  of  a  tale 
of  the  overthrow  of  the  Titans,  is  itself  like  a  Titanic  torso, 
and  in  it  the  faults  of  Endymion  are  repaired  and  its  promise 
fulfilled.  Both  are  filled  with  that  which  was  deepest  in  the 
mmd  of  Keats,  the  love  of  loveliness  for  its  own  sake,  the 
sense  of  its  rightful  and  pre-eminent  power;  and,  in  the  sin- 
gleness of  worship  which  he  gave  to  Beauty,  Keats  is  espe- 
cially the  artist,  and  the  true  father  of  the  latest  modern  school 
of  poetry. 

Not  content  with  carrying  us  into  Greek  life,  he  took  us 
back  into  mediaeval  romance,  and  in  this  also  he  started  a 
new  type  of  poetry.  There  are  two  poems  which  mark  this 
revival — Isabella,  and  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,     Isabella  is  a 


Poetry— Keats.  407 


version  of  Boccaccio's  tale  of  the  Pot  of  Basil;  St.  Agries'  Eve 
is,  as  far  as  I  know,  original;  the  former  is  purely  mediaeval, 
the  latter  is  tinged  with  the  conventional  mediaevalism  of 
Spenser.  Both  poems  are  however  modern  and  individual. 
The  overwrought  daintiness  of  style,  the  pure  sensuousness, 
the  subtle  flavor  of  feeling  belong  to  no  one  but  Keats. 
Their  originality  has  caused  much  imitation  of  them,  but 
they  are  too  original  for  imitation. 

In  smaller  poems,  such  as  the  Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn,  the 
poem  to  Autiomn,  and  some  sonnets,  he  is  perhaps  at  his  very 
best.  In  these  and  in  all,  his  painting  of  Nature  is  as  close 
and  as  direct  as  Wordsworth's;  less  full  of  the  imagination  that 
links  human  thought  to  Nature,  but  more  full  of  the  imagi- 
nation which  broods  upon  enjoyment  of  beauty.  His  career 
was  short;  he  had  scarcely  begun  to  write  when  death  took 
him  away  from  the  loveliness  he  loved  so  keenly.  Consump- 
tion drove  him  to  Rome,  and  there  he  died  almost  alone.  He 
lies  not  far  from  Shelley,  near  the  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius." 

"Poetry,  according  to  Milton's  famous  saying,  should  be  'simple, 
sensuous,  impassioned.'  Keats,  as  a  poet,  is  abundantly  and  enchantingly 
sensuous;  the  question  with  some  people  will  be,  whether  he  is  any- 
thing else.  'The  yearning  passion  for  the  Beautiful,'  which  was  with 
Keats,  as  he  himself  truly  says,  the  master-passion,  is  not  a  passion  of 
the  sensuous  or  sentimental  man,  is  not  a  passion  of  the  sensuous  or 
sentimental  poet.  It  is  an  intellectual  and  spiritual  passion.  In  his 
last  days  Keats  wrote,  'I  have  loved  the  principle  of  beauty  in  all 
things;  and,  if  I  had  had  time,  I  would  have  made  myself  remembered.' 
He  has  made  himself  remembered,  and  remembered  as  no  merely  sen- 
suous poet  could  be ;  and  he  has  done  it  by  having  '  loved  the  principle 
of  beauty  in  all  things.'  For  to  see  things  in  their  beauty  is  to  see 
things  in  their  truth,  and  Keats  knew  it.  And  with  beauty  goes  not 
only  truth,  joy  goes  with  her  also;  and  this  too  Keats  saw  and  said.  It 
is  no  small  thing  to  have  so  loved  the  principle  of  beauty  as  to  perceive 
the  necessary  relation  of  beauty  with  truth,  and  of  both  with  joy. 

Let  and  hindered  as  he  was,  and  with  a  short  time  and  imperfect  ex- 
perience, by  virtue  of  his  feeling  for  beauty  and  of  his  perception  of 
the  vital  connection  of  beauty  with  truth,  Keats  accomplished  so  much 


408       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


in  poetry  that  in  one  of  the  two  great  modes  by  which  poetry  interprets, 
in  the  faculty  of  naturalistic  interpretation,  he  ranks  with  Shakespeare. 
No  one  else  in  English  poetry,  save  Shakespeare,  has  in  expression  quite 
the  fascinating  felicity  of  Keats,  his  perfection  of  loveliness.  For  the 
second  great  half  of  poetic  interpretation,  for  that  faculty  of  moral  in- 
terpretation which  is  in  Shakespeare,  and  is  informed  by  him  with  the 
same  power  of  beauty  as  his  naturalistic  interpretation,  Keats  was  not 
ripe." — MdttJieic  Arnold. 

BiBiJOORAPHT.  Keats. — Milnes'  Life,  Letters,  and  Lit,  Remains  of;  De  Quincey's 
Essays;  Howitt's  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Brit.  Poets;  Ward's  Anthology;  Lowell's 
Among  My  Books,  2d  Ser. ;  S.  Phillips'  Essays  from  the  Times;  Macmillan,  Nov., 
1860;  At.  Mo.,  v.  7,  1861;  and  11,  1863;  Temple  Bar,  July,  1873;  Eel,  Mag.,  Feb., 
1849;  Gent's.  Mag.,  Feb.,  1873. 

Keats's  Ode  to  a  Nightingale. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  liad  sunk. 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot. 

But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 

Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

Oh  for  a  draught  of  vintage  that  hath  been 

Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Proven9al  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth! 
Oh  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-staindd  mouth; 

That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim! 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 


Poetry— Keats' s.  409 


Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last,  grey  hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies; 

Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards. 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards. 
Already  with  thee!  tender  is  the  night. 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  fays; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding,  mossy  ways 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  fncense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine, 
Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid -May's  eldest  child, 

The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen,  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  musM  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath. 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain— 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 


410       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path  ^ 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 

Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn!  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 
Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades. 

Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 
Fled  is  that  music;  do  I  wake  or  sleep? 


Lesson  65. 

Tennyson. — "  Keats  marks  the  exhaustion  of  the  impulse 
which  began  with  Burns  and  Cowper.  There  was  no  longer 
now  in  England  any  large  wave  of  public  thought  or  feeling 
such  as  could  awaken  poetry.  But  with  the  Reform  agitation, 
and.  the  new  religious  agitation  at  Oxford,  which  was  of  the 
same  date,  a  new  excitement  or  a  new  form  of  the  old,  came 
on  England,  and  with  it  a  new  tribe  of  poets  arose,  among 
whom  we  live.  The  elements  of  their  poetry  were  also  new, 
though  their  germs  were  sown  in  the  previous  poetry.  It  took 
up  the  theological,  sceptical,  social,  and  political  questions 
which  disturbed  England.  It  gave  itself  to  metaphysics  and 
to  analysis  of  human  character.  It  carried  the  love  of  nat- 
ural scenery  into  almost  every  county  in  England,  aud  de- 
scribed the  whole  land.     Some  of  its  best  writers  are  Kobebt 


Poetry —  Tennyson.  411 

Browjs-ing,  Mes.  Browning,  Matthew  Arnold,  and  A.  H. 
Clough.    . 

One  of  them,  Alfred  Ten'kyson',  has  for  forty  years  re- 
mained the  first.  All  the  great  subjects  of  his  time  he  has 
touched  poetically,  and  enlightened.  His  feeling  for  Nature 
is  accurate,  loving,  and  of  a  wide  range.  His  human  sympa- 
thy fills  as  wide  a  field.  The  large  interests  of  mankind  and 
of  his  own  time,  the  lives  of  simple  people,  and  the  subtler 
phases  of  thought  and  feeling  which  arise  in  our  overwrought 
society  are  wisely  and  tenderly  written  of  in  his  poems.  His 
drawing  of  distinct  human  characters  is  the  best  we  have  in 
pure  poetry  since  Chaucer  wrote.  He  writes  true  songs,  and 
he  has  excelled  all  English  writers  in  the  pure  Idyll.  The 
Idylls  of  the  King  are  a  kind  of  epic,  and  he  has  lately  tried 
the  drama.  In  lyrical  measures,  as  in  the  form  of  his  blank 
verse,  he  is  as  inventive  as  original.  It  is  by  the  breadth  of 
his  range  that  he  most  conclusively  takes  the  first  place,  among 
the  modern  poets." 

"  If  I  may  take  my  own  experience  as  an  indication  of  the  nature  of 
Tennyson's  influence  generally,  I  should  say  that  he  is  pre-eminently 
distinguished  by  the  quality  of  charm.  The  element  of  sweetness  per- 
vades his  poetry;  sweetness  too  subtle  to  define,  sweetness  never  permit 
ted  to  cloy  the  reader,  sweetness  cunningly  allied  with,  or  relieved  by, 
what  the  poet  calls  '  the  bitter  of  the  sweet. '  I  accept  the  ancient  canon  of 
criticism — that  poetry  ought  to  be  not  only  beautiful  but  sweet,  and  I 
think  that  it  is  in  the  exceeding  beauty  of  Tennyson's  that  one  chief 
secret  of  its  sweetness  lies. 

Not  only  do  these  poems  display  no  vulgar  smartness  but  no  fun,  no 
humor,  no  caricature.  A  Greek  severity  of  style  is  everywhere  apparent; 
a  reverence  as  of  one  for  whom  song  has  in  very  truth  the  sacredness  of 
worship.  And  even  if  we  decide  that  in  the  work  of  Tennyson  as  a 
whole  there  is  too  much  of  rule  and  measure,  too  marked  an  absence  of 
humor,  too  little  of  the  wild  witching  graces  of  freedom,  we  are,  I  think, 
safe  in  regarding  the  classic  purity,  the  chastened  enthusiasm — in  one 
word,  the  moderation,  of  his  first  poems  as  a  good  omen.  The  earnestness 
noted  by  Hallam  was  the  best  proof  of  capacity  to  take  pains,  the  best 
guarantee  of  staying  power. 


412       Literature- of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


To  describe  his  command  of  language  by  any  ordinary  terms  expres- 
sive of  fluency  or  force  would  be  to  convey  an  idea  botli  inadequate  and 
erroneous.  It  is  not  only  that  he  knows  every  word  in  the  language 
suited  to  express  his  every  idea;  he  can  select  with  the  ease  of  magic 
the  word  that  above  all  others  is  best  for  his  purpose:  nor  is  it  that  he 
can  at  once  summon  to  his  aid  the  best  word  the  language  affords;  with 
an  art  which  Shakespeare  never  scrupled  to  apply,  though  in  our  day  it 
is  apt  to  be  counted  mere  Germanism,  and  pronounced  contrary  to  the 
genius  of  the  language,  he  combines  old  words  into  new  epithets,  he 
daringly  mingles  all  colors  to  bring  out  tints  that  never  were  on  sea  or 
shore.  His  words  gleam  like  pearls  and  opals,  like  rubies  and  emeralds. 
He  yokes  the  stern  vocables  of  the  English  tongue  to  the  chariot  of  his 
imagination,  and  they  become  gracefully  brilliant  as  the  leopards  of 
Bacchus,  soft  and  glowing  as  the  Cytherean  doves.  He  must  have  been 
born  with  an  ear  for  verbal  sounds,  an  instinctive  appreciation  of  the 
beautiful  and  delicate  in  words,  hardly  ever  equalled.  Though  his  later 
works  speak  less  of  the  blossom-time— show  less  of  the  efflorescence  and 
iridescence,  and  mere  glance  and  gleam  of  colored  words— they  display  no 
falling  off,  but  rather  an  advance,  in  the  mightier  elements  of  rhythmic 
speech. " — Peter  Bayne. 

Bibliography.  Tennyson.— P.  Bayne's  Lessons  from  my  Masters;  Bromley's  Es- 
says; Stedman's  Victorian  Poets;  Taine's  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.;  J.  sterling's  Essays  and 
Tales;  Howitt's  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Brit.  Poets;  Black.  Mag  ,  v.  79,  18.56;  88, 
1860;  and  96,  1864;  Fras.  Mag.,  v,  52,  1855;  53,  1856;  and  60,  1859:  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  31, 
1849;  41,  1864;  and  53,  1871;  Ed.  Rev.,  vs.  102  and  131;  Quar.  Rev,,  v.  106,  1859;  119, 
1866;  128,  1870;  and  131,  1871;  West.  Rev.,  v.  72,  1859;  and  82,  1864;  Nat.  Quar.  Rev., 
V.  5,  1862;  and  19,  1869;  Contem  Rev.,  v.  7,  1867;  New  Englander,  v  18,1860;  and 
22,  1863. 

Mrs.  Browning.— Black.  Mag.,  v.  81,  1857:  and  87,  1860;  Nat.  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  1, 
1860;  and  5,  1862;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  26,1856;  36,  1862;  and  51,  1870;  N.  A.  Rev.,  v.  85 
1857. 

Mr.  Browning.— Ed.  Rev.,  v.  120, 1864;  130, 1869;  and  135.  1872;  Fort.  Rev.,  v.  11, 
1869;  and  16,  1871;  Macmlllan,  Jan.  and  Apr.,  1869;  Contem.  R«v.,  Jan.  and  Feb.- 
1867;  and  May,  1874;  N.  Br.  Rev.,  v.  34, 1861 ;  and  49,  1868. 


From  Tennyson's  Maud. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 


Poetry—  Tennyson's,  413 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 
Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 

On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 
To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that  she  loves. 

To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 
"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood^ 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 

That,  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs, 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes. 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 


414        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 -. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lee; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls. 

Come  hither,  4he  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 
Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is  near;" 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late;" 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear;" 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

2  lie  Defence  of  Lucknow. 

Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season,  O  banner  of  Britain,  hast  thou 
Floated  in  conquering  battle  or  flapt  to  the  battle-cry ! 
Never  with  mightier  glory  than  when  we  had  rear'd  thee  on  high 
Flying  at  top  of  the  roofs  in  the  ghastly  siege  of  Lucknow — 
Shot  thro'  the  staff  or  the  halyard,  but  ever  we  raised  thee  anew, 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 


Poetry — Tenny  sorts.  415 

Frail  were  the  works  that  defended  the  hold  that  we  held  with  our  lives — 
Women  and  children  among  us,  God  help  them,  our  children  and  wives! 
Hold  it  we  might — and  for  fifteen  days  or  for  twenty  at  most 
"Never  surrender,  I  charge  you,  but  every  man  die  at  his  post!" 
Voice  of  the  dead  whom  we  loved,  our  Lawrence  the  best  of  the  brave : 
Cold  were  his  brows  when  we  kiss'd  him — we  laid  him  that  night  in  his 

grave. 
"  Every  man  die  at  his  post!"  and  there  hail'd  on  our  houses  and  halls 
Death  from  their  rifle-bullets,  and  death  from  their  cannon-balls. 
Death  in  our  innermost  chamber,  and  death  at  our  slight  barricade, 
Death  while  we  stood  with  the  musket,  and  death  while  we  stoopt  to 

the  spade. 
Death  to  the  dying,  and  wounds  to  the  wounded,  for  often  there  fell 
Striking  the  hospital  wall,  crashing  thro'  it,  their  shot  and  their  shell, 
Death — for  their  spies  were  among  us,  their  marksmen  were  told  of  our 

best, 
So  that  the  brute  bullet  broke  thro'  the  brain  that  could  think  for  the 

rest ; 
Bullets  would  sing  by  our  foreheads,  and  bullets  would  rain  at  our  feet- 
Fire  from  ten  thousand  at  once  of  the  rebels  that  girdled  us  round — 
Death  at  the  glimpse  of  a  finger  from  over  the  breadth  of  a  street. 
Death  from  the  heights  of  the  mosque  and  the  palace,  and  death  in  the 

ground! 
Mine?    Yes,  a  mine!     Countermine!  down,  down!   and  creep  thro'  the 

hole! 
Keep  the  revolver  in  hand!  you  can  hear  him — the  murderous  mole! 
Quiet,  ah!  quiet — wait  till  the  point  of  the  pick  axe  be  thro'! 
Click  with  the  pick,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  again  than  before — 
Now  let  it  speak,  and  you  fire,  and  the  dark  pioneer  is  no  more; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew! 

Ay,  but  the  foe  sprung  his  mine  many  times,  and  it  chanced  on  a  day 
Soon  as  the  blast  of  that  underground  thunderclap  echo'd  away. 
Dark  thro'  the  smoke  and  the  sulphur  like  so  many  fiends  in  their  hell — 
Cannon-shot,  musket-shot,  volley  on  volley,  and  yell  upon  yell — 
Fiercely  on  all  the  defences  our  myriad  enemy  fell. 
What  have  they  done?  where  is  it?     Out  yonder.     Guard  the  Redan! 
Storm  at  the  water-gate !  storm  at  the  Bailey -gate !  storm,  and  it  ran 
Surging  and  swaying  all  round  us,  as  ocean  on  every  side 
Plunges  and  heaves  at  a  bank  that  is  daily  drown'd  by  the  tide- 
So  many  thousands  that,  if  they  be  bold  enough,  who  shall  escape? 


416       Literature  of  Period  VIIL;  1789 


Kill  or  be  kill'd,  live  or  die,  they  shall  know  we  are  soldiers  and  men  1 
Ready!   take  aim  at  their  leaders — their  masses  are  gapp'd  with  our 

grape— 
Backward  they  reel  like  the  wave,  like  the  wave  flinging  forward  again, 
Flying  and  foil'd  at  the  last  by  the  handful  they  could  not  subdue ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

Handful  of  men  as  we  were,  we  were  English  in  heart  and  limb, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  race  to  command,  to  obey,  to  endure, 
Each  of  us  fought  as  if  hope  for  the  ganison  hung  but  on  him; 
Still — could  we  watch  at  all  points?  we  were  everyday  fewer  and  fewer. 
There  was  a  whisper  among  us,  but  only  a  whisper  that  past: 
"  Children  and  wives — if  the  tigers  leap  into  the  fold  unawares— 
Every  man  die  at  his  post — and  the  foe  may  outlive  us  at  last — 
Better  to  fall  by  the  hands  that  they  love  than  to  fall  into  theirs!" 
Roar  upon  roar,  in  a  moment  two  mines,  by  the  enemy  sprung, 
Clove  into  perilous  chasms  our  walls  and  our  poor  palisades. 
Rifleman,  true  is  your  heart,  but  be  sure  that  your  hand  be  as  true! 
Sharp  is  the  fire  of  assault,  better  aimed  are  your  flank  fusillades — 
Twice  do  we  hurl  them  to  earth  from  the  ladders  to  which  they  had 

clung. 
Twice  from  the  ditch  where  they  shelter  we  drive  them  with  hand- 
grenades  ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

Then  on  another  wild  morning  another  wild  earthquake  out-tore 
Clean  from  our  lines  of  defence  ten  or  twelve  good  paces  or  more. 
Rifleman,  high  on  the  roof,  hidden  there  from  the  light  of  the  sun — 
One  has  leapt  up  on  the  breach,  crying  out,  "  Follow  me,  follow  me!" 
Mark  him — he  falls!  then  another,  and  Mm  too,  and  down  goes  he. 
Had  they  been  bold  enough  then,  who  can  tell  but  the  traitors  had  won? 
Boardings  and  rafters  and  doors— an  embrasure!  make  way  for  the  gun! 
Now  double-charge  it  with  grape!   It  is  charged  and  we  fire,  and  they 

run. 
Praise  to  our  Indian  brothers,  and  let  the  dark  face  have  his  due ! 
Thanks  to  the  kindly  dark  faces  who  fought  with  us,  faithful  and  few. 
Fought  with  the  bravest  among  us,  and  drove  them,  and  smote  them  and 

slew. 
That  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  in  India  blew. 

Men  will  forget  what  we  suffer  and  not  what  we  do.     We  can  fight! 
But  to  be  soldier  all  day  and  be  sentinel  all  thro'  the  night— 


Poetry —  Tennyson^  s.  417 

Ever  the  mine  and  assault,  our  sallies,  their  lying  alarms. 

Bugles  and  drums  in  the  darkness,  and  shoutings  and  soundings  to  arms. 

Ever  the  labor  of  fifty,  that  had  to  be  done  by  five, 

Ever  the  marvel  among  us  that  one  should  be  left  alive. 

Ever  the  day  with  its  traitorous  death  from  the  loopholes  around. 

Ever  the  night  with  its  cofflnless  corpse  to  be  laid  in  the  ground, 

Heat  like  the  mouth  of  hell,  or  a  deluge  of  cataract  skies, 

Stench  of  old  offal  decaying,  and  infinite  torment  of  flies, 

Thoughts  of  the  breezes  of  May  blowing  over  an  English  field, 

Cholera,  scurvy,  and  fever,  the  wound  that  would  not  be  heal'd, 

Lopping  away  of  the  limb  by  the  pitiful-pitiless  knife, — 

Torture  and  trouble  in  vain, — for  it  never  could  save  us  a  life. 

Valor  of  delicate  women  who  tended  the  hospital  bed, 

Horror  of  women  in  travail  among  the  dying  and  dead. 

Grief  for  our  perishing  children,  and  never  a  moment  for  grief. 

Toil  and  ineffable  weariness,  faltering  hopes  of  relief, 

Havelock  baffled  or  beaten,  or  butchered  for  all  that  we  knew — 

Then  day  and  night,  day  and  night,  coming  down  on  the  still  shatter'd 

walls. 
Millions  of  musket-bullets,  and  thousands  of  cannon-balls — 
But  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

Harkl  Cannonade,  fusillade!  is  it  true  what  was  told  by  the  scout, 
Outram  and  Havelock  breaking  their  way  through  the  fell  mutineers? 
Surely  the  pibroch  of  Europe  is  ringing  again  in  our  ears! 
All  on  a  sudden  the  garrison  utter  a  jubilant  shout, 
Havelock's  glorious  Highlanders  answer  with  conquering  cheers. 
Sick  fromthe  hospital  echo  them,  women  and  children  come  out. 
Blessing  the  wholesome  white  faces  of  Havelock's  good  fusileers, 
Kissing  the  war-harden'd  hand  of  the  Highlander  wet  wit]j  their  tears! 
Dance  to  the  pibroch! — saved!  we  are  saved! — is  it  you?  is  it  you? 
Saved  by  the  valor  of  Havelock,  saved  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven ! 
"Hold  it  for  fifteen  days!"  we  have  held  it  for  eighty-seven! 
And  ever  aloft  on  the  palace-roof  the  old  banner  of  England  blew. 

From  LocTcaUy  HaU. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn; 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle  horn 
'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall, 


418       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts, 
ilany  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest. 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  west. 
Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  taogled  in  a  silver  braid. 
Here  about  the  beach  1  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  time; 
When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land  reposed; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed; 
When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see; 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be. 

In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast; 
In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest; 
In  the  spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd  dove; 
In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 
Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thmner  than  should  be  for  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observance  hung. 
And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee." 
On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  nigbt. 
And  she  turn'd — her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighs — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes- 
Saying,  "  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong;" 
Saying,   "Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?"  weeping,  "I  have  loved  thee 

long." 
Love  took  up  the  glass  of  time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his  glowing  hands; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 
Love  took  up  the  harp  of  life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 
Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fulness  of  the  spring. 
Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted !     O  my  Amy,  mine  no  more! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland!     O  the  barren,  barren  shore! 
Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue! 
Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy?— having  known  me— to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine  I 


Poetry — Tennyson's.  419 

Yet  it  shall  be:  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day, 

What  is  fine  withia  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is:  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown. 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force, 

Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  tlian  his  horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy:  think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine, 

Go  to  him,  it  is  thy  duty;  kiss  him,  take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought ; 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose  easy  things  to  understand — 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee  with  my  hand! 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth  1 

Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  w^arp  us  from  the  living  truth! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  nature's  rule! 

Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd  forehead  of  the  fool! 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 
Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy:  what  is  that  which  I  should  do? 
I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's  ground, 
When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 
But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  honor  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  others  heels. 
Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?  I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous  Mother- Age  1 
Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life; 
Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would  yield. 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's  field. 
And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway,  near  and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn; 
And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then. 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men; 
Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new: 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they  shall  do. 
For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  cj'e  could  see. 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be; 
Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales; 


420       Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


Heard  the  lieavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 

From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furl'd 

In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumphed,  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left  me  dry, 

Left  me  with  a  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint. 

Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point; 

Slowly  coines  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creeping  nigher, 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs. 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 

Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever  like  a  boy's? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger  on  the  shore. 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a  laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-horn, 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for  their  scorn: 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  moulder'd  string? 

I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.     Forward,  forward,  let  us  range. 
Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 
Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day: 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 
Mother- Age,  (for  mine  I  know  not)  help  me  as  when  life  begun: 
Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the  sun- 
Oh,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy  yet. 
Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 
Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt. 
Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail  or  fire  or  snow ; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 


Poetry — William  Morris.  421 


Lesson  66. 

Morris  and  Others. — '*  Within  the  last  ten  years,  the 
impulse  given  in  '32  has  died  away.  The  vital  interest  in 
theological  and  social  questions,  in  human  questions  of  the 
present  has  decayed;  and  the  same  thing  which  we  find  in 
the  case  of  Keats  has  again  taken  place.  A  new  class  of 
literary  poets  has  arisen,  who  have  no  care  for  a  present  they 
think  dull,  for  religious  questions  to  which  they  see  no  end. 
They  too  have  gone  back  to  Greek  and  mediaeval  and  old 
Norse  life  for  their  subjects.  They  find  much  of  their  inspi- 
ration in  Italy  and  in  Chaucer;  but  they  continue  to  love 
poetry  and  the  poetry  of  natural  description.  No  English 
poetry  exceeds  Swinburne's  in  varied  melody;  and  the  poems 
of  EossETTi,  within  their  limited  range,  are  instinct  with  pas- 
sion at  once  subtle  and  intense. 

Of  them  all  William  Morkis  is  the  greatest,  and  of  him 
much  more  is  to  be  expected.  At  present  he  is  our  most 
delightful  story-teller.  He  loses  much  by  being  too  long,  but 
we  pardon  the  length  for  the  ideal  charm.  The  Death  of 
Jason  and  the  stories  told  month  by  month  in  the  Earthly 
Paradise,  a  Greek  and  mediaeval  story  alternately,  will  long 
live  to  give  pleasure  to  the  holiday  times  of  men.  It  is  some 
pity  that  it  is  foreign  and  not  English  story,  but  we  can  bear 
to  hear  alien  tales,  for  Tennyson  has  always  kept  us  close  to 
the  scenery,  the  traditions,  the  daily  life,  and  the  history  of 
England;  and  his  last  poem,  the  drama  of  Queen  Mary,  1875, 
is  written  almost  exactly  twelve  hundred  years  since  the  date 
of  our  first  poem,  Caedmon's  Paraphrase.  To  think  of  one 
and  then  of  the  other,  and  of  the  great  and  continuous  stream 
of  literature  that  has  flowed  between  them,  is  more  than 
enough  to  make  us  all  j)roud  of  the  name  of  Englishmen."  . 

Bibliography.  Rossetti.— Stedman's  Vic.  Poets;  Cath,  World,  May,  1874;  Fras. 
Mag.,  May,  1870;  Fort.  Rev.,  v.  13, 1870;  West.  Rev.,  v.  95, 1871;  Contem.  Rev.,  v.  18, 
1871. 


422        Literature  of  Period  VI IL,  1789 


Morris.— Ed.  Rev.,  v.  133,  1871;  Fort.  Rev.,  July,  1867;  Contem,  Rev.,  Dec,  1874; 
Fras.  Mag.,  v.  79, 1869;  New  Englander,  v.  30,  1871;  Scrib.  Mo.,  Feb.,  1875;  West. 
Rev.,  V.  90,  1868 

Swinburne.— Lowell's  My  Study  Windows;  Stedman's  Vic.  Poets;  Loud.  Quar. 
Rev.,  Jan.,  1869;  Cath.  World,  Dec,  1874;  Fras.  Mag.,  v.  71, 1865;  and  74, 1868;  Galaxy, 
Dec,  1866;  Nat.  Quar.  Rev.,  v.  14,  1867;  West.  Rev.,  v.  87,  1867. 

From  Morris's  Life  and  Death  of  Jason* 

But  when  they  reached  the  precinct  of  the  God, 

And  on  the  hallowed  turf  their  feet  now  trod, 

Medea  turned  to  Jason,  and  she  said, — 

"  O  love,  turn  round,  and  note  the  goodlihead 

My  father's  palace  shows  beneath  the  stars. 

Bethink  thee  of  the  men  grown  old  in  wars, 

Who  do  my  bidding;  what  delights  I  have, 

How  many  ladies  lie  in  wait  to  save 

My  life  from  toil  and  carefulness,  and  think 

How  sweet  a  cup  I  have  been  used  to  drink, 

And  how  I  cast  it  to  the  ground  for  tliee. 

Upon  the  day  thou  weariest  of  me, 

I  wish  that  thou  mayst  somewhat  think  of  this, 

And  'twixt  thy  new-found  kisses,  and  the  bliss 

Of  something  sweeter  than  thine  old  delight, 

Remember  thee  a  little  of  this  night 

Of  marvels,  and  this  starlit,  silent  place, 

And  these  two  lovers,  standing  face  to  face." 

"  O  love,"  he  said,  "  by  what  thing  shall  I  swear 
That  while  I  live  thou  shalt  not  be  less  dear 
Than  thou  art  now  ?" 

"  Nay,  sweet,"  she  said,  "  let  be; 
"Wert  thou  more  fickle  than  the  restless  sea, 
Still  should  I  love  thee,  knowing  thee  for  such ; 
Whom  I  know  not,  indeed,  but  fear  the  touch 

*  Pelias  dethroned  his  brother  JEson,  King  of  lolchos,  and  sought  the  life  of 
Jason,  ^son's  son.  The  boy  was  concealed,  and,  reaching  maturity,  demanded 
the  crown.  Pelias  promised  it  to  him  if  he  would  fetch  him  a  famous  golden 
fleece— that  of  a  ram  sacrificed  to  Jupiter  jmd  given  to  ^etes,  King  of  Colchis. 
Jason  organized  an  expedition,  and  set  sail  in  the  ship  Argo.  Arriving  at  Colchis, 
Jason  wins  the  love  of  Medea,  daughter  of  Ji^etes.  and  is  helped  by  her  to  perform 
the  hard  tasks  imposed  by  her  father  as  a  condition  of  receiving  the  fleece.  The 
tasks  performed,  ^etes  refuses  the  reward.  The  going  of  Jason  and  Medea  to 
the  temple  where  the  treasure  was  kept,  the  charming  of  the  monster  that  guarded 
it,  the  capture  of  the  fleece,  and  their  escape  are  described  in  the  passage  quoted. 


Poetry — William  Morrises,  423 

Of  Fortune's  hand  when  she  beholds  our  bliss, 
And  knows  that  nought  is  good  to  me  but  this. 

But  now  be  ready,  for  I  long  full  sore 
To  hear  the  merry  dashing  of  the  oar, 
And  feel  the  freshness  of  the  following  breeze 
That  sets  me  free,  and  sniff  the  rough  salt  seas. 
Look!  yonder  thou  mayst  see  armed  shadows  steal 
Down  to  the  quays,  the  guiders  of  thy  keel; 
Now  follow  me,  though  little  shalt  thou  do 
To  gain  this  thing,  if  Hecate  be  true 
Unto  her  servant.     Nay,  draw  not  thy  sword, 
And,  for  thy  life,  speak  not  a  single  word 
Until  I  bid  thee,  else  may  all  be  lost, 
And  of  this  game  our  lives  yet  pay  the  cost." 

Then  toward  the  brazen  temple-door  she  went, 
Wherefrom,  half-open,  a  faint  gleam  was  sent; 
For  little  need  of  lock  it  had  forsooth, 
Because  its  sleepless  guardian  knew  no  ruth. 
And  had  no  lust  for  precious  things  or  gold. 
Whom,  drawing  near,  Jason  could  now  behold, 
As  back  Medea  thrust  the  heavy  door, 
For  prone  he  lay  upon  the  gleaming  floor, 
Not  moving,  though  his  restless,  glittering  eyes 
Gave  unto  them  no  least  hope  of  surprise. 
Hideous  he  was,  where  all  things  else  were  fair; 
Dull-skinned,  foul-spotted,  with  lank,  rusty  hair 
About  his  neck;  and  hooked  yellow  claws 
Just  showed  from  'neath  his  belly  and  huge  jaws, 
Closed  in  the  hideous  semblance  of  a  smile. 
Then  Jason  shuddered,  wondering  with  what  wile 
That  fair  king's  daughter  such  a  beast  could  tame,. 
And  of  his  sheathed  sword  had  but  little  shame. 

But  being  within  the  doors,  both  mantle  grey 
And  heavy  gown  Medea  cast  away. 
And  in  thin  clinging  silk  alone  was  clad. 
And  round  her  neck  a  golden  chain  she  had. 
Whereto  was  hung  a  harp  of  silver  white. 
Then  the  great  dragon,  at  that  glittering  sight, 
Raised  himself  up  upon  his  loathly  feet, 
As  if  to  meet  her,  while  her  fingers  sweet 
Already  moved  amongst  the  golden  strings. 


424       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789  — 

Preluding  nameless  and  delicious  things. 

But  now  she  beckoned  Jason  to  her  side, 

For  slowly  towards  them  'gan  the  beast  to  glide, 

And  when  close  to  his  love  the  hero  came. 

She  whispered  breathlessly,  "  On  me  the  blame 

If  here  we  perish ;  if  I  give  the  word, 

Then  know  that  all  is  lost,  and  draw  thy  sword, 

And  manlike  die  in  battle  with  the  beast; 

So  dying  shalt  thou  fail  to  see  at  least 

This  body  thou  desiredst  so  to  see. 

In  thy  despite  here  mangled  wretchedly. 

Peace,  for  he  cometh.     O  thou  Goddess  bright. 

What  help  wilt  thou  be  unto  me  this  night?" 

So  murmured  she,  while  ceaselessly  she  drew 
Her  fingers  through  the  strings,  and  fuller  grew 
The  tinkling  music;  but  the  beast,  drawn  nigh, 
"Went  slower  still,  and,  turning,  presently 
Began  to  move  around  them  in  a  ring. 
And  as  he  went,  there  fell  a  strange  rattling 
Of  his  dry  scales;  but,  as  he  turned,  she  turned, 
Nor  failed  to  meet  the  eyes  that  on  her  burned, 
With  steadfast  ej^es,  and,  lastly,  clear  and  strong 
Her  voice  broke  forth  in  sweet  melodious  song:— 
"  O  evil  thing,  what  brought  thee  here 
To  be  a  wonder  and  a  fear 
Unto  the  river-haunting  folk? 
Was  it  the  God  of  Day  that  broke 
The  shadow  of  thy  windless  trees. 
Gleaming  from  golden  palaces, 
And  shod  with  light,  and  armed  with  light, 
Made  thy  slime  stone,  and  day  thy  night. 
And  drove  thee  forth  unwillingly 
Within  his  golden  house  to  lie? 

Or  rather,  thy  dull,  waveless  lake 
Didst  thou  not  leave  for  her  dread  sake 
Who,  passing  swift  from  glade  to  glade, 
The  forest-dwellers  makes  afraid 
With  shimmering  of  her  silver  bow 
And  dreadful  arrows?    Even  so 
I  bid  thee  now  to  yield  to  me, 
Her  maid,  who  overmastered  thee, 


Poetry — William  Morrises.  425 

The  three-formed  dreadful  one  who  reigns 

In  heaven  and  the  fiery  plains, 

But  on  the  green  earth  best  of  all. 
Lo,  now  thine  upraised  crest  let  fall, 

Relax  thy  limbs,  let  both  thine  eyes 

Be  closed,  and  bestial  fantasies 

Fill  thy  dull  head  till  dawn  of  day 

And  we  are  far  upon  our  way." 
As  thus  she  sung,  the  beast  seemed  not  to  hear 
Her  words  at  first,  but  ever  drew  anear. 
Circling  about  them,  and  Medea's  face 
Grew  pale  unto  the  lips,  though  still  the  place 
Rung  with  the  piercing  sweetness  of  her  song. 
But  slower  soon  he  dragged  his  length  along, 
And  on  his  limbs  he  tottered,  till  at  last 
All  feebly  by  the  wondering  prince  he  passed, 
And  whining  to  Medea's  feet  he  crept, 
With  eyes  half  closed,  as  though  well-nigh  he  slept, 
And  there  before  her  laid  his  head  adown ; 
Who,  shuddering,  on  his  wrinkled  neck  and  brown 
Set  her  white  foot,  and  whispered,  "  Haste,  O  love! 
Behold  the  keys;  haste!  while  the  Gods  above 
Are  friendly  to  us;  there  behold  the  shrine 
Where  thou  canst  see  the  lamp  of  silver  shine. 
Nay,  draw  not  death  upon  both  thee  and  me 
With  fearless  kisses;  fear,  until  the  sea 
Shall  fold  green  arms  about  us  lovingly. 
And  kindly  Venus  to  thy  keel  be  nigh." 

Then  lightly  from  her  soft  side  Jason  stept, 
While  still  upon  the  beast  her  foot  she  kept, 
Still  murmuring  softly  many  an  unknown  word. 
As  when  through  half -shut  casements  the  brown  bird 
We  hearken,  when  the  night  is  come  in  June, 
And  thick-leaved  woods  are  'twixt  us  and  his  tune. 

Therewith  he  threw  the  last  door  open  wide. 
Whose  hammered  iron  did  the  marvel  hide, 
And  shut  his  dazzled  eyes,  and  stretched  his  hands 
Out  towards  the  sea-born  wonder  of  all  lands, 
And  buried  them  deep  in  the  locks  of  gold. 
Grasping  the  fleece  within  his  mighty  hold. 


426       Literature  of  Period  yilL,  1789 


Which  when  Medea  saw,  her  gown  of  grey 
She  caught  up  from  the  ground,  and  drew  away 
Her  wearied  foot  from  off  the  rugged  beast, 
And,  while  from  her  soft  strain  she  never  ceased, 
In  the  .dull  folds  she  hid  her  silk  from  siglit, 
And  then,  as  bending  'neath  the  burden  bright, 
Jason  drew  nigh,  joyful,  yet  still  afraid. 
She  met  him,  and  her  wide  grey  mantle  laid 
Over  the  fleece,  whispering,  "Make  no  delay; 
He  sleeps  who  never  slept  by  night  or  day 
Till  now;  nor  will  his  charmed  sleep  be  long. 
Light-foot  am  I,  and  sure  thine  arms  are  strong; 
Haste,  then!  no  word!  nor  turn  about  to  gaze 
At  me,  as  he  who  in  the  shadowy  ways 
Turned  round  to  see  once  more  the  twice-lost  face." 

Then  swiftly  did  they  leave  the  dreadful  place, 
Turning  no  look  behind,  and  reached  the  street, 
That  with  familiar  look  and  kind  did  greet 
Those  wanderers,  mazed  with  marvels  and  with  fear. 
And  so,  unchallenged,  did  they  draw  anear 
The  long  white  quays,  and  at  the  street's  end  now 
Beheld  the  ships'  masts  standing  row  by  row 
Stark  black  against  the  stars.     Then  cautiously 
Peered  Jason  forth,  ere  they  took  heart  to  try 
The  open  starlit  place;  but  nought  he  saw 
Except  the  night- wind  twitching  the  loose  straw 
From  half-unloaded  keels,  and  nought  he  heard 
But  the  strange  twittering  of  a  caged  green  bird 
Within  an  Indian  ship,  and  from  the  hill 
A  distant  baying;  yea,  all  was  so  still. 
Somewhat  they  doubted,  natheless  forth  they  passed. 
And  Argo's  painted  sides  they  reached  at  last. 

Then  saw  Medea  men  like  shadows  grey 
Rise  from  the  darksome  decks,  who  took  straightway 
With  murmured  joy,  from  Jason's  outstretched  hands. 
The  conquered  fleece,  the  wonder  of  all  lands. 
While  with  strong  arms  he  took  the  royal  maid, 
And  in  their  hold  the  precious  burthen  laid; 
And  scarce  her  dainty  feet  could  touch  the  deck, 
Ere  down  he  leapt,  and  little  now  did  reck 
That  loudly  clanged  his  armor  therewithal. 


Poetry — William  Morrises.  427 

But,  turning  townward,  did  Medea  call, — 
"  O  noble  Jason,  and  ye  lie  roes  strong, 
To  sea!  to  sea!  nor  pray  ye  loiter  long; 
For  surely  shall  ye  see  the  beacons  flare 
Ere  in  mid  stream  ye  are,  and  running  fair 
Qn  toward  the  sea  with  tide  and  oar  and  saiL 
My  father  wakes,  nor  bides  he  to  bewail 
His  loss  and  me;  I  see  his  turret  gleam 
As  he  goes  toward  the  beacon,  and  down  stream 
Absyrtus  lurks  before  the  sandy  bar 
In  mighty  keel  well-manned  and  dight  for  war. " 

Now  swift  beneath  the  oar-strokes  Argo  flew, 
While  the  sun  rose  behind  them,  and  they  drew 
Unto  the  river's  mouth,  nor  failed  to  see 
Absyrtus'  galley  waiting  watchfully 
Betwixt  them  and  the  white-topped  turbid  bar. 
Therefore  they  gat  them  ready  now  for  war, 
With  joyful  hearts,  for  sharp  they  sniffed  the  sea. 
And  saw  the  great  waves  tumbling  green  and  free 
Outside  the  bar  upon  the  way  to  Greece, 
The  rough  green  way  to  glory  and  swe^t  peace. 

Then  to  the  prow  gat  Jason,  and  the  maid 
Must  needs  be  with  him,  though  right  sore  afraid, 
As  nearing  now  the  Colchian  ship,  they  hung 
On  balanced  oars;  but  the  wild  Areas  strung 
His  deadly  bow,  and  clomb  into  the  top. 

Then  Jason  cried,  "Absyrtus,  will  ye  stop 
Our  peaceful  keel,  or  let  us  take  the  sea? 
Soothly,  have  we  no  will  to  fight  with  thee 
If  we  may  pass  unfoughten;  therefore  say 
What  is  it  thou  wilt  have  this  dawn  of  day?" 

Now  on  the  other  prow  Absyrtus  stood, 
His  visage  red  with  eager,  wrathful  blood. 
And  in  his  right  hand  shook  a  mighty  spear, 
And  said,  "  O  seafarers,  ye  pass  not  here. 
For  gifts  or  prayers,  but,  if  it  must  be  so, 
Over  our  sunken  bulwarks  shall  ye  go." 

Then  Jason  wrathful ly  threw  up  his  head. 
But  ere  the  shout  came,  fair  Medea  said. 
In  trembling  whisper  thrilling  through  his  ear.- 

"  Haste,  quick  upon  them!  if  before  is  fear 


428        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


Behind  is  death. "    Then  Jason,  turning,  saw 
A  tall  ship  staggering  with  tlie  gusty  flaw, 
Just  entering  the  long  reach  where  they  were. 
And  heard  her  horns  through  the  fresh  morning  air. 

Then  lifted  he  his  hand,  and  with  a  cry 
Back  flew  the  balanced  oars  full  orderly, 
And  toward  the  doomed  ship  mighty  Argo  passed; 
Thereon  Absyrtus  shouted  loud,  and  cast 
His  spear  at  Jason,  that  before  his  feet 
Stuck  in  the  deck ;  then  out  the  arrows  fleet 
Burst  from  the  Colchians;  and  scarce  did  they  spare 
Medea's  trembling  side  and  bosom  fair; 
But  Jason,  roaring  as  the  lioness 
When  round  her  helpless  whelps  the  hunters  press, 
Whirled  round  his  head  his  mighty  brass-bound  spear, 
That,  flying,  smote  the  prince  beneath  the  ear, 
As  Areas'  arrow  sunk  into  his  side. 
Then,  falling,  scarce  he  met  the  rushing  tide, 
Ere  Argo's  mighty  prow  had  thrust  apart 
The  huddled  oars,  and  through  the  fair  ship's  heart 
Had  thrust'her  iron  beak,  then  the  green  wave 
Rushed  in  as  rush  the  waters  through  a  cave 
That  tunnels  half  a  sea-girt,  lonely  rock. 
Then  drawing  swiftly  backward  from  the  shock, 
And  heeding  not  the  cries  of  fear  and  woe, 
They  left  the  waters  dealing  with  their  foe; 
Then  at  the  following  ship  threw  back  a  shout, 
And  seaward  o'er  the  bar  drave  Argo  out. 

Then  joyful  felt  all  men  as  now  at  last 
From  hill  to  green  hill  of  the  sea  they  passed ; 
But  chiefly  joyed  Medea,  as  now  grew 
The  Colchian  hills  behind  them  faint  and  blue, 
And  like  a  white  speck  showed  the  following  ship. 
There  'neath  the  canopy,  lip  pressed  to  lip, 
They  sat  and  told  their  love,  till  scarce  he  thought 
What  precious  burden  back  to  Greece  he  brought 
Besides  the  maid,  nor  for  his  kingdom  cared, 
As  on  her  beauty  with  wet  eyes  he  stared. 
And  heard  her  sweet  voice  soft  as  in  a  dream, 
Where  all  seems  gained,  and  trouble  dead  does  seem. 


Poetry — Bryant.  429 


Lesson  67. 

Ameeican  Poetry. — William  Cullen  Bryant  was  born 
at  Cummington,  Mass.,  1794;  entered  Williams  College,  1810; 
admitted  to  the  bar,  1815;  became  connected  with  the  Even- 
ing Post,  1826,  and  afterwards  was  its  editor-in-chief.  Wrote 
Thanatopsis  at  the  age  of  eighteen;  published  his  first  volume 
of  poems,  1821;  the  first  complete  collection,  1832;  and  an 
additional  volume,  1864.  His  translation  of  the  Iliad  ap- 
peared 1870;  and  of  the  Odyssey,  1871.     He  died  in  1878. 

"  The  poetry  of  Bryant  is  not  great  in  amount,  but  it  represents  a 
great  deal  of  work,  as  few  men  are  more  finished  artists  than  he,  or  more 
patient  in  shaping  and  polishing  their  productions.  No  piece  of  verse 
ever  left  his  hands  till  it  had  received  the  last  touch  demanded  by  the 
most  correct  judgment  and  the  most  fastidious  taste.  Thus  the  style  of 
his  poetry  is  always  admirable.  Nowhere  can  one  find  in  what  he  has 
written  a  careless  or  slovenly  expression,  an  awkward  phrase,  or  an  ill- 
chosen  word.  He  never  puts  in  an  epithet  to  fill  out  a  line,  and  never 
uses  one  which  could  be  improved  by  substituting  another. 

The  range  within  which  he  moves  is  not  wide.  He  has  not  written 
narrative  or  dramatic  poems;  he  has  not  painted  poetical  portraits;  he 
has  not  aspired  to  the  honors  of  satire,  of  wit,  or  of  humor;  he  has  made 
no  contributions  to  the  poetry  of  passion.  His  poems  may  be  divided 
mto  two  great  classes — those  which  express  the  moral  aspect  of  human- 
ity, and  those  which  interpret  the  language  of  Nature ;  though  it  may 
be  added  that  in  not  a  few  of  his  productions  these  two  elements  are 
combmed. 

Those  of  the  former  class  are  not  so  remarkable  for  originality  of 
treatment  as  for  the  beauty  and  truth  with  which  they  express  the  re- 
flections of  the  general  mind  and  the  emotions  of  the  general  heart.  In 
these  poems  we  see  our  own  experience  returned  to  us,  touched  with  the 
lights  and  colored  with  the  hues  of  the  most  exquisite  poetry. 

In  his  study  of  Nature  he  combines  the  faculty  and  the  vision,  the 
eye  of  the  naturalist  and  the  imagination  of  the  poet.  No  man  observes 
the  outward  shows  of  earth  and  sky  more  accurately;  no  man  feels  them 
more  vividly;  no  man  describes  them  more  beautifully." — 0. 8.  Hillard. 


430        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


Bryant's  TJie  Snow  Shower. 

Stand  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray. 

On  the  lake  below  thy  gentle  eyes; 
The  clouds  hang  over  it,  heavy  and  gray, 

And  dark  and  silent  the  water  lies; 
And  out  of  that  frozen  mist  the  snow 
In  wavering  flakes  begins  to  flow; 

Flake  after  flake 
They  sink  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

See  how  in  a  living  swarm  they  come 
From  the  chambers  beyond  that  misty  veil; 

Some  hover  awhile  in  air,  and  some 
Rush  prone  from  the  sky  like  summer  hail. 

All,  dropping  swiftly  or  settling  slow. 

Meet,  and  are  still  in  the  depths  below ; 
Flake  after  flake 

Dissolved  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Here  delicate  snow-stars,  out  of  the  cloud, 
Come  floating  downward  in  airy  play. 

Like  spangles  dropped  from  the  glistening  crowa 
That  whiten  by  night  the  Milky  Way; 

There  broader  and  burlier  masses  fall; 

The  sullen  water  buries  them  all- 
Flake  after  flake — 

All  drowned  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

And  some,  as  on  tender  wings  they  glide 
From  their  chilly  birth-cloijd,  dim  and  gray, 

Are  joined  in  their  fall,  and,  side  by  side. 
Come  clinging  along  their  unsteady  way; 

Al  friend  with  friend,  or  husband  with  wife 

Makes  hand  in  hand  the  passage  of  life; 
Each  mated  flake 

Soon  sinks  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Lol  while  we  are  gazing,  in  swifter  haste 
Stream  down  the  snows,  till  the  air  is  white, 

As,  myriads  by  myriads  madly  chased, 

They  fling  themselves  from  their  shadowy  height. 


Poetry— Bryant  s.  43 1 


The  fair,  frail  creatures  of  middle  sky, 

What  speed  they  make,  "with  their  grave  so  nigh, 

Flake  after  flake, 
To  lie  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake! 

I  see  in  thy  gentle  eyes  a  tear; 

They  tura  to  me  in  sorrowful  thought; 
Thou  thinkest  of  friends,  the  good  and  dear, 

Who  were  for  a  time  and  now  are  not; 
Like  these  fair  children  of  cloud  and  frost 
That  glisten  a  moment  and  then  are  lost, 

Flake  after  flake- 
All  lost  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Yet  look  again,  for  the  clouds  divide; 

A  gleam  of  blue  on  the  water  lies; 
And,  far  away,  on  the  mountain-side, 

A  sunbeam  falls  from  the  opening  skies. 
But  the  hurrying  host  that  flew  between 
The  cloud  and  the  water  no  more  is  seen; 

Flake  after  flake 
At  rest  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

June, 
I  gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round; 
And  thought  that,  when  I  came  to  lie 

Within  the  silent  ground, 
'Twere  pleasant,  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain  turf  should  break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould, 

A  coffin  borne  through  sleet. 
And  icy  clouds  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat — 
Away!  I  will  not  think  of  these— 
Blue  be  the  sky,  and  soft  the  breeze. 

Earth  green  beneath  the  feet. 
And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 
Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 


432        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 
Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come,  from  the  village  sent. 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon 

With  fairy  laughter  blent? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show. 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me. 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep. 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs  and  song  and  light  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been, 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene; 
Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 

Is — that  his  grave  is  green; 
And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 
To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


Poetry — Bryants.  433 


Robert  of  Lincoln. 

Merrily  swinging  on  briar  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountainside  or  mead, 
Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name: 
Bob-o'-link,  bobo'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gaily  drest, 

Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding-coat; 
White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest. 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob  o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife. 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 
Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings; 
Bob- o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Brood,  kind  creature;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he. 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


434        Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight  1 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 
Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might : 
Bob-o'-liuk,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nice,  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out. 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 

Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid. 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes;  the  children  are  grown; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  's  a  humdrum  crone; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


Poetry — BryanVs.  435 


Translation  from  the  Odyssey. 

They  took  their  rest.     But,  when  the  child  of  dawn, 

Aurora,  rosy-fingered,  looked  abroad, 

Ulysses  put  his  vest  and  mantle  on ; 

The  nymph,  too,  in  a  robe  of  silver  white, 

Ample  and  delicate  and  beautiful. 

Arrayed  herself,  and  round  about  her  loins 

Wound  a  fair  golden  girdle,  drew  a  veil 

Over  her  head,  and  planned  to  send  away 

Magnanimous  Ulysses.     She  bestowed 

A  heavy  axe  of  steel  and  double-edged. 

Well  fitted  to  the  hand,  the  handle  wrought 

Of  olive  wood,  firm  set  and  beautiful, 

A  polished  adze  she  gave  him  next,  and  led 

The  way  to  a  far  corner  of  the  isle 

Where  lofty  trees,  alders  and  poplars,  stood. 

And  firs  that  reached  the  clouds,  sapless  and  dry 

Long  since,  and  fitter  thus  to  ride  the  waves. 

Then,  having  shown  where  grew  the  tallest  trees, 

Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  sought  her  home. 

Trees  then  he  felled,  and  soon  the  task  was  done. 
Twenty  in  all  he  brought  to  earth,  and  squared 
Their  trunks  with  the  sharp  steel,  and  carefully 
He  smoothed  their  sides,  and  wrought  them  by  a  line. 
Calypso,  gracious  goddess,  having  brought 
Wimbles,  he  bored  the  beams,  and,  fitting  them 
Together,  made  them  fast  with  nails  and  clamps. 
As  when  some  builder,  skilful  in  his  art. 
Frames,  for  a  ship  of  burden,  the  broad  keel, 
Such  ample  breadth  Ulysses  gave  the  raft. 
Upon  the  massy  beams  he  reared  a  deck. 
And  floored  it  with  long  planks  from  end  to  end. 
On  this  a  mast  he  raised,  and  to  the  mast 
Fitted  a  yard;  he  shaped  a  rudder  neat 
To  guide  the  raft  along  her  course,  and  round 
With  woven  work  of  willow  boughs  he  fenced 
Her  sides  against  the  dashiugs  of  the  sea. 
Calypso,  gracious  goddess,  brought  him  store 
Of  canvas,  which  he  fitly  shaped  to  sails. 
And,  rigging  her  with  cords  and  ropes  and  stays. 


436       Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


Heaved  her  with  levers  into  the  great  deep, 

'Twas  the  fourth  day;  his  labors  now  were  done, 
And,  on  the  fifth,  the  goddess  from  her  isle 
Dismissed  him,  newly  from  the  bath,  arrayed 
In  garments  given  by  her,  that  shed  perfumes. 
A  skin  of  dark  red  wine  she  put  on  board, 
A  larger  one  of  water,  and  for  food 
A  basket,  stored  with  viands  such  as  please 
The  appetite.     A  friendly  wind  and  soft 
She  sent  before.     The  great  Ulysses  spread 
His  canvas  joyfully  to  catch  the  breeze. 
And  sat  and  guided  with  nice  care  the  helm, 
Gazing  with  fixed  eye  on  the  Pleiades, 
Bo5tes  setting  late,  and  the  Great  Bear, 
By  others  called  the  Wain,  which,  wheeling  round, 
Looks  ever  toward  Orion,  and  alone 
Dips  not  into  the  waters  of  the  deep. 
For  so  Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  bade 
That,  on  his  ocean  journey,  he  should  keep 
That  constellation  ever  on  his  left. 
Now  seventeen  days  were  in  the  voyage  past. 
And  on  the  eighteenth  shadowy  heights  appeared. 
The  nearest  point  of  the  Pheacian  land, 
Lying  on  the  dark  ocean  like  a  shield. 

To  a  Waterfowl. 

"Whither,  midst  falling  dew. 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong. 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake  or  marge  of  river  wide 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side? 


Poetry — Bryanfs.  '  437 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land. 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall  bend 

Soon  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given. 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


The  Future  Life. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keepi 

The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead. 
When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps, 

And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there? 

That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were  given 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer. 

Shall  it  be  banished  from  thy  tongue  in  heaven? 


438        Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life-breathing  wind, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past. 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life  and  be  no  more? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine  and  larger  light 

Await  thee  there;  for  thou  hast  bowed  tliy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me — the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell 

Shrink  and  consume  my  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll ; 

And  wrath  has  left  its  scar— that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet,  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home, 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this — 

The  wisdom  which  is  love — till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss? 

LiESSOJsr  68. 

Ameeican  Poetey. — Henry  Wadswoeth  Longfellow 
was  born  at  Portland,  Me.,  in  1807;  was  graduated  at  Bow- 
doin  College  in  1825;  and,  after  studying  in  France,  Spain, 
Italy,  and  G-ermany,  entered,  in  1828,  upon  the  professorship 
of  modern  languages  at  Bowdoin,  to  which  he  had  been  elected 
in  1826.  In  1835  he  was  elected  to  the  chair  of  modern  lan- 
guages and  literature  at  Harvard  College.  In  1836  he  entered 
upon  his  new  professorship,  occupying  Cragie  House,  Wash- 
ington's headquarters,  which  he  afterwards  bought  and  made 


Poetry — Longfellow.  439 

his  home.  Published  Hyperion  and  Voices  in  the  Night  in 
1839;  The  Spanish  Student,  a  drama,  in  1843;  Evangeli7ie  in 
1847;  Kavanagh,  a  tale,  in  1849;  The  Song  of  Hiawatha  in 
1855;  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish  in  1858;  The  Tales  of 
a  Wayside  Inn  (of  which  The  Birds  of  Killingworth  is  one) 
in  1863;  a  Translation  of  Dante  in  1867-70;  and  other  poems 
during  these  years  and  since.  He  resigned  his  Chair  at  Har- 
vard in  1854,  and  in  1874  received  a  large  complimentary  vote 
for  the  lord  rectorship  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  He 
died  March  24,  1882. 

'  *  In  Longfellow's  latest  books  we  are  aware  of  the  same  magic 
that  charmed  us  of  yore.  The  poet  keeps  throughout  the  grace  and 
subtile  power  of  the  past ;  he  keeps  all  that  was  ever  his  own,  even  to 
the  love  of  profuse  simile,  and  the  quaint  doubt  of  his  reader  implied 
by  the  elaborated  meaning;  and  he  loses  only  the  tints  and  flavors  not 
thoroughly  assimilated  or  not  native  in  him.  Throughout  is  the  same 
habit  of  recondite  and  scholarly  allusiou,  the  same  quick  sympathy  with 
the  beautiful  in  simple  and  common  things,  the  same  universality,  the 
same  tenderness  for  country  and  for  home.  Over  all  presides  individ- 
uality superior  to  accidents  of  resemblance,  and  distinguishing  each 
poem  with  traits  unmistakably  and  only  the  author's;  and  the  equality 
in  the  long  procession  of  his  beautiful  thoughts  never  wearies,  but  is 
like  that  of  some  fine  bass-relief  in  which  the  varying  allegory  reveals 
one  manner  and  many  inspirations. 

Together  with  this  peculiar  artistic  quality  in  the  poems  of  Mr. 
Longfellow  is  a  spiritual  matiirity,  which  the  reader  cannot  fail  to 
notice.  As  there  never  has  been  anything  unripe  or  decrepit  in  this 
master's  art,  so  there  never  has  been  anything  crude  or  faltering  in  his 
devotion  to  greatness  and  purity  in  life.  His  work  is  not  the  record  of 
a  career  beginning  in  generous  and  impossible  dreams,  and  ending  in 
sordid  doubt  and  pitiful  despite ;  nor  the  history  of  a  soul  born  to  spirit- 
ual poverty,  and  working  at  last  into  tardy  hopes  and  sympathies  which 
scarcely  suffice  to  discharge  the  errors  of  the  past.  His  books  tell  of  a 
soul  clothed  at  once  in  human  affections  and  divine  aspirations,  of  a 
poetic  nature  filled  with  conscious  and  instinctive  reverence  for  the 
supreme  office  of  poetry  in  the  world.  They  form,  indeed,  so  perfect  a 
biography  of  the  author  that,  if  one  knew  nothing  of  his  literary  life, 
here  one  might  read  more  than  could  otherwise  be  told  of  its  usefulness 
and  beauty. 


440       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


It  is,  of  course,  not  the  poet's  merely  literary  life  that  is  recorded  in 
his  books.  He  who  touches  the  hearts  of  others  must  write  from  his 
own,  and  doubtless  the  songs  of  a  true  poet  preserve  the  memory,  not 
only  of  all  the  events  but  of  all  the  moods  of  his  life.  But  the  hospi- 
tality that  invites  the  whole  world  home  is  exquisitely  proud  and  shy, 
and  its  house  is  built  like  those  old  palaces  in  which  a  secret  gallery  was 
made  for  the  musicians,  and  gay  or  plaintive  music  from  an  invisible 
source  delighted  the  banqueting  guests, " — N.  A.  Review. 


Longfellow's  Ihe  Birds  of  Killingworth. 

It  was  the  season  when,  through  all  the  land, 
The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and,  building,  ^ing 

Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand 

Whom  Saxon  Csedmon  calls  the  Blithe-heart  King; 

When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  expand. 
The  banners  of  the  vanguard  of  the  Spring, 

And  rivulets,  rejoicings  rush  and  leap 

And  wave  their  fluttering  signals  from  the  steep. 

The  robin  and  the  blue-bird,  piping  loud, 
Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with  their  glee; 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were  proud 
Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  mentioned  be; 

And  hungry  crows,  assembled  in  a  crowd. 
Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  incessantly, 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and  said, 

" Give  us,  O  Lord,  this  day  our  daily  bread!" 

Across  the  Sound  the  birds  of  passage  sailed, 
Speaking  some  unknown  language  strange  and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and,  passing,  hailed 
The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their  fleet; 

Or,  quarrelling  together,  laughed  and  railed 
Like  foreign  sailors  landed  in  the  street 

Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish  noise 

Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening  girls  and  boys. 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killingworth, 
In  fabulous  dnys,  some  hundred  years  ago; 

And  thrifty  farmers,  as  they  tilled  the  earth. 
Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing-  of  the  crow. 


Poetry — Longfellow  s.  441 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 
Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe; 
They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed  with  dreadful  words 
To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race  of  birds. 

And  a  town-meeting  was  convened  straightway 

To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 
Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay. 

Levied  blackmail  upon  the  garden  beds 
And  corn-fields,  and  beheld  without  dismay 

The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  fluttering  shreds, 
The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast. 
Whereby  their  sinful  pleasure  was  increased. 

Then  from  his  house,  a  temple  painted  white, 

With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red. 
The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splendid  sight! 

Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 
Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor  right, 

Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one  who  said, 
"  A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 
Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society !" 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 

The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of  brass, 
Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round 

Now  at  the  clouds  and  now  at  the  green  grass, 
And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 

Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class. 
Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 
As  pure  as  water  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his  door. 
In  his  voluminous  neck-cloth  white  as  snow; 

A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore; 
His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step  was  slow; 

There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  before; 
He  seemed  the  incarnate  "Well,  I  told  you  sol" 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 

There  was  a  street  named  after  him  in  town. 


442        Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


Tliese  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With  sundry  farmers  from  the  region  round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall. 
His  air  impressive,  and  his  reasoning  sound; 

111  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great  and  small, 
Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd  they  found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 

Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath  the  sun. 

When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place  apart 
Rose  the  Preceptor  to  redress  the  wrong, 

And,  trembling  like  a  steed  before  the  start. 
Looked  round  bewildered  on  the  expectant  throng; 

Then  thought  of  fair  Almira,  and  took  heart 
To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear  and  strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown. 

And  quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed  down. 

"Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 
From  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 

The  Poets;  in  this  little  town  of  yours 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Committee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heavenly  city, 

The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us  all 

In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 

The  thrush  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  the  green  steeples  of  the  piny  wood ; 

The  oriole  in  the  elm;  the  noisy  jay, 
Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food; 

The  blue-bird  balanced  on  some  topmost  spray,- 
Flooding  with  melody  the  neighborhood; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark  and  all  the  throng 

That  dwell  in  nests  and  have  the  gift  of  song. 

You  slay  them  all!  and  wherefore?  for  the  gain 
Of  a  scant  handful,  more  or  less,  of  wheat 

Or  rye  or  barley  or  some  other  grain, 
Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious  feet, 


Poetry — Longfellow's,  443 

Searching  f oi\  worm  or  weevil  after  rain ! 
Or  a  few  cherries  that  are  not  so  sweet 
As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 
Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable  breasts. 

Do  you  ne'er  think  what  wondrous  beings  these? 

Do  you  ne'er  think  who  made  them,  and  who  taught 
The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought? 
Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many  keys, 

Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man  e'er  caught. 
Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 
Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to  heaven. 

Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps  through 
The  dim,  leaf -latticed  windows  of  the  grove, 

How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 
Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love! 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember,  too, 
'Tis  always  morning  somewhere,  and  above 

The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  without  birds  1 
Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and  beams, 

As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 
Hang  empty  'mid  the  cobwebs  of  his  dreams  1 

Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 
Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your  teams 

Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and  no  more 

The  feathered  gleaners  follow  to  your  door? 

What !  would  you  rather  see  the  incessant  stir 

Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 
And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 

Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play? 
Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  whirr 

Of  meadow-lark,  and  its  sweet  roundelay, 
Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you  take 
Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush  and  brake? 


444        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers;  but  know 
They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your  farms, 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious  foe, 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred  harms; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 
Renders  good  service  as  your  man-at-arms, 

Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 

And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

How  can  I  teach  your  children  gentleness 

And  mercy  to  the  weak  and  reverence 
For  Life,  which,  in  its  w^eakness  or  excess. 

Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence. 
Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no  less 

The  self-same  light,  although  averted  hence, 
When,  by  your  laws,  your  actions,  and  your  speech, 
You  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach?" 

With  this  he  closed;  and  through  the  audience  went 
A  murmur,  like  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves ; 

The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some  bent 
Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their  sheaves; 

Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 
Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks  and  in  beeves. 

The  birds  were  doomed ;  and,  as  the  record  shows, 

A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach. 
Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making  laws, 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 
And  crowned  his  modest  temples  with  applause. 

They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more  than  each, 
He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  their  cause. 

Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won  from  thee, 

O  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy  1 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began; 

O'er  fields  and  orchards  and  o'er  woodland  crests, 
The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains  on  their  breasts, 


Poetry — Longfellow's.  445 

Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight  of  man, 

While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their  nests; 
A  slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not  words, 
The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  Birds ! 

The  summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were  dead; 

The  days  were  like  hot  coals;  the  very  ground 
Was  burned  to  ashes ;  in  the  orchards  fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 
The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 

Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and  found 
No  foe  to  check  their  march  till  they  had  made 
The  land  a  desert,  without  leaf  or  shade. 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the  town, 

Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 
Slaughtered  the  Innocents.     From  the  trees  spun  down 

The  canker-worms  upon  the  passers-by. 
Upon  each  woman's  bonnet,  shawl,  and  gown, 

Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a  little  cry; 
They  were  the  terror  of  each  favorite  walk, 
The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 

The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a  few 
Confessed  their  error,  and  would  not  complain. 

For,  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 
When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 

Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although  they  knew 
It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again ;  , 

As  school-boys,  finding  their  mistake  too  late, 

Draw  a  wet  sponge  across  the  accusing  slate. 

That  year  in  Killingworth  the  Autumn  came 

Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look. 
The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame, 

The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom's-Day  book. 
A  few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson  with  their  shame, 

And  drowned  themselves  despairing  in  the  brook. 
While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  everywhere, 
Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air. 


446        Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 


But  the  next  spring  a  stranger  sight  was  seen, 
A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was  sung, 

As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have  been 
If  some  dumb  animal  had  found  a  tongue  1 

A  wagon,  overarched  with  evergreen. 
Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages  hung, 

All  full  of  singing- birds,  came  down  the  street, 

Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 

From  all  the  country  round  these  birds  were  brought. 
By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  quest, 

And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons,  sought 
In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they  loved  best, 

Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 
Were  satires  to  the  authorities  addressed, 

While  others,  listening  in  green  lanes,  averred 

Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 
Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to  know 

It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding  day, 
And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below, 

When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  overflow. 

And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 

Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth. 


Lesson  69. 

American  Poetry. — John  Greenleaf  Whittier  was  born 
at  Haverhill,  Mass.,  1807.  Spent  two  years  at  the  Haverliill 
Academy;  became  Editor  of  the  American  Manufacturer^ 
1829;  of  the  New  England  Weekly  Review,  1830;  of  the 
Pennstjlvania  Freeman,  1838;  and  Corresponding  Editor  of 
the  National  Era,  1847.  Has  lived  for  many  years  in  literary 
retirement.  Several  editions  of  his  poems  have  been  printed, 
among  the  best  of  which  is  the  Centennial  Edition  of  1876. 
His  prose  writings  are  numerous. 

James  Eussell  Lowell  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Mass., 


Poetry — LowelVs.  447 

1819;  was  graduated  at  Harvard  College,  1838,  and  at  Harvard 
Law  School,  1840;  published  a  small  volume  of  poems,  A 
Year's  Life,  1841;  another  volume,  1844;  and  in  1848  another, 
containing  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  A-  Fable  for  Critics, 
and  The  Biglow  Papers,  first  series.  He  succeeded  Longfel- 
low as  Professor  of  modern  languages  and  literature  at  Har- 
vard, 1855;  was  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  1857-62;  and 
of  the  North  American  Review,  1863-72.  Published  a  new 
series  of  Biglow  Papers,  1867;  and  two  volumes  of  essays, 
My  Study  Windo20s  and  Among  My  Books,  1870.  A  second 
series  of  the  latter  followed  soon  after.  In  1880  Lowell  be- 
came U.  S.  Minister  to  England. 

*'  The  leading  articles  in  Mr.  Lowell's  volumes,  notably  those  on  Dry- 
den,  Shakespeare,  Lessing,  Wordswortli,  and  Milton,  exhibit,  with  some 
difference  of  degree,  perliaps,  tlie  same  conscientious  thoroughness, 
the  same  minutest  accuracy  of  observation,  the  same  elegance  and 
force  of  language,  the  same  mastery  of  aesthetic  principles,  and, 
what  is  equally  essential  to  all  good  criticism,  a  healthful  moral 
tone  such  as  is  born  only  of  sound  principles  and  genuine  convic- 
tion. Instead  of  the  one-sidedness  of  the  partisan  and  special  plead- 
er, one  finds  in  all  the  fairness  and  candor  which  spring  naturally  from 
largeness  of  mind  and  a  simple  love  of  truth  It  is  worthy  of  special 
notice,  too,  that  in  estimating  the  merit  of  literary  work,  Mr.  Lowell, 
although  himself  a  university  professor,  finds  his  standard  and  test  of 
excellence  rather  in  direct  appeal  to  the  consciousness,  the  intuitions, 
and  the  common  judgments  and  sensibilities  of  men,  than  in  any  con- 
ventional canons  or  dicta  of  the  schools.  His  criticisms  carry  convic 
tion  to  the  mind  of  the  average  reader — who  knows  little  and  cares  \es-$ 
about  the  prescribed  rules  of  composition — not  because  of  their  recog- 
nized accord  with  received  authorities,  but  because  they  command  the 
sanction  of  his  reason  and  his  heart." — Ray  Palmer. 

**  The  poems  of  Mr.  Lowell  have  a  peculiar  and  specific  value,  derived 
partly  from  their  intrinsic  merits,  and  partly  from  the  time  and  cir^am- 
stances  of  their  composition.  He  began  to  write  at  a  time  when  the  re- 
formatory agitations  of  New  England  had  developed  among  the  refined 
and  enlightened  classes  an  unwonted  activity  and  independence  of 
thought.  Theories  of  metaphysics  and  religion,  previously  unknown  on 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  and  a  more  fervent  appreciation  of  tlie  scope  of 


448        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


that  sentiment  of  'humanity,'  underlying  and  prompting  the  recent 
movements  of  social  amelioration,  had  initiated  a  convulsion  with  which 
our  political  and  religious  world  still  shakes  from  side  to  side.  Of 
course,  literature  could  not  withstand  the  contagion,  and  of  all  our 
young  poets  no  one  more  distinctly  received  and  embodied  the  new 
spirit  of  the  age  than  Mr.  Lowell.  This,  we  think,  furnishes  the  key- 
note and  explanation  of  his  poems.  An  acquaintance  with  the  contem- 
porary events  which  suggested  or  affected  their  composition  is  as  essen-- 
tial  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  them  as  a  knowledge  of  the  life  and  times 
of  Wordsworth  is  to  the  full  understanding  of  the  philosophy  of  '  The 
Excursion,'  which  grew  out  of  them;  and  the  want  of  this  among  ordi- 
nary readers  may  account  for  the  limited  popularity  of  a  large  portion 
of  the  more  elaborate  efforts  of  the  New  England  poet.  This  peculiar- 
ity it  is  which  has  limited  the  circle  of  Mr.  Lowell's  readers — in  some 
degree  he  has  been  obliged  to  create  the  taste  he  would  gratify. 

In  what  other  modern  poet  shall  we  find  a  more  manly  and  robust 
mould  of  imagination  and  thought,  a  more  subtile  insight,  a  more  intense 
sympathy  with  nature  in  all  her  forms,  or  a  soul  more  alive  to  those 
moods  and  impressions  which  a  close  and  loving  intimacy  with  nature 
and  humanity  can  alone  create?  What  poet  has  expressed  with  more 
homely  beauty  and  directness  those  sweet  and  precious,  but  almost 
voiceless,  sentiments  and  emotions  which  have  their  hiding-place  in  tlie 
innermost  chambers  of  every  human  heart?" — N.  A.  Beview. 

Lowell's  The  Changeling* 

I  had  a  little  daughter, 

And  she  was  given  to  me 
To  lead  me  gently  ba^jkward 

To  the  Heavenly  Father's  knee, 
That  I,  by  the  force  of  nature, 

Might  in  some  dim  wise  divine 
The  depth  of  his  infinite  patience 

To  this  wayward  soul  of  mine. 

I  know  not  how  others  saw  her, 

But  to  me  she  was  wholly  fair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she  came  from 

Still  lingered  and  gleamed  in  her  hair; 

♦  For  illustrations  of  Lowell's  prose,  see  his  criticisms  on  various  authors  through- 
out this  work. 


Poetry — LowelVs.  449 

For  it  was  as  wavy  and  golden, 

And  as  many  changes  took, 
As  the  shadows  of  sun-gilt  ripples 

On  the  yellow  bed  of  a  brook. 

To  what  can  I  liken  her  smiling 

Upon  me,  her  kneeling  lover? 
How  it  leaped  from  her  lips  to  her  eyelids. 

And  dimpled  her  wholly  over, 
Till  her  outstretched  hands  smiled  also. 

And  I  almost  seemed  to  see 
The  very  heart  of  her  mother 

Sending  sun  through  her  veins  to  me! 

She  had  been  with  us  scarce  a  twelvemonth, 

And  it  hardly  seemed  a  day, 
When  a  troop  of  wandering  angels 

Stole  my  little  daughter  away ; 
Or  perhaps  those  heavenly  Zincali 

But  loosed  the  hampering  strings. 
And,  when  they  had  opened  her  cage-door, 

My  little  bird  used  her  wings. 

But  they  left  in  her  stead  a  changeling, 

A  little  angel  child, 
That  seems  like  her  bud  in  full  blossom. 

And  smiles  as  she  never  smiled. 
When  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  see  it 

Where  she  always  used  to  lie. 
And  I  feel  as  weak  as  a  violet 

Alone  'neath  the  awful  sky; 

As  weak,  yet  as  trustful  also; 

For  the  whole  year  long  I  see 
All  the  wonders  of  faithful  nature 

Still  worked  for  the  love  of  me. 
Winds  wander,  and  dews  drip  earthward. 

Rain  falls,  suns  rise  and  set, 
Earth  whirls,  and  all  but  to  prosper 

A  poor  little  violet. 


450        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789  . 

This  child  is  not  mine  as  the  first  was, 

I  cannot  sing  it  to  rest, 
I  cannot  lift  it  up  fatherly 

And  bliss  it  upon  my  breast ; 
Yet  it  lies  in  my  little  one's  cradle, 

And  it  sits  in  my  little  one's  chair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she's  gone  to 

Transfigures  its  golden  hair. 

The  Courtin\*  ' 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

Fur'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 

An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 
An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 

With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in — 
There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 

To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 

Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her. 
An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord,  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in. 

Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin'. 
An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 

Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

*  This  poem  and  the  two  series  ot  The  Biglow  Papers  are  written  in  the  Yankee 
dialect. 


Poetry — LowelVs.  451 

'T  was  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man  A  1, 

Clean  grit  an'  human  natur' ; 
None  couldn't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 

Nor  dror  a  f  urrer  straighter. 

He'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals. 

He'd  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 
Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells — 

All  is,  he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 

All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 
The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 

Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir; 
My!  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring. 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 

When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 

O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some! 

She  seemed  to  've  got  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper, — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  I'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle, 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity -pat. 

But  hem  went  pity  Zekle.  " 


452        Literature  of  Period  VIII.,  1789 


An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  f  urder, 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"  You  wan't  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose?" 

"  Wal  ....  no  ....  I  come  dasignin'  " — 

"  To  see  my  Ma?     She's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so. 

Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin' ; 
Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 

Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 

Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other. 
An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 

He  couldn't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "I'd  better  call  agin;" 
Says  she,  "  Think  likely.  Mister;" 

Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin. 
An'  ....  wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes. 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jis'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  natures  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressin'. 
Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 

An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is,  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 


Poetry — LowelVs.  453 


Vmon  of  Sir  Launfal* 
Prelude  to  Part  Second. 

Down  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak, 

From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old; 
On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 

It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 
And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek; 
It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 
From  the  unleaf ed  boughs  and  pastures  bare. 
The  httle  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 
'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter  proof ; 
All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 
He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams; 
Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars^ 
As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars; 
He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 
In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight. 
Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 
Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt. 
Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 
Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze ; 
Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 
But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew; 
Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief 
"With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf; 

*  The  story  ran  that  the  Holy  Grail,  the  Cup  out  of  which  Jesus  partook  of  the 
last  supper  with  his  disciples,  was  brought  into  England  by  Joseph  of  Arimathe*, 
and  remained  many  years  in  the  keeping  of  his  descendants.  It  was  incumbent  on 
those  having  charge  of  it  to  be  chaste  in  thought,  word,  and  deed.  One  of  these 
violating  this  condition,  the  Holy  Grail  disappeared.  To  go  in  search  of  it  was 
said  to  have  been  a  favorite  enterprise  with  the  knights  of  the  mythic  Arthur's 
Court. 

In  this  poem  of  Lowfell's,  Sir  Launfal  is  represented  as  having  a  vision  as  he  lay 
asleep  on  the  rushes  through  the  night  before  he  is  to  start  out  in  search  of  the 
Holy  Cup.  The  first  of  the  vision,  in  which  the  knight  sees  himself,  young,  strong, 
haughty,  and  splendidly  arrayed,  set  forth  in  the  spring-time  is  described  in  Part 
First  of  the  poem. 

The  last  of  the  vision  in  which  the  knight  sees  himself,  old,  bent,  in  rags,  and 
humbled  in  spirit,  rettun  in  the  winter-time,  unsuccessful  in  his  search,  is  described 
in  Part  Second,  which  we  quote.  This  Part  is  preceded  by  a  Prelude  descriptive 
of  winter,  as  Part  First  is  by  a  Prelude  descriptive  of  spring. 


454        Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 


Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 

For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and  here 

He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 

And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond  drops, 

That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun. 

And  made  a  star  of  every  one, 

Ko  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 

Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice; 

'Tvvas  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay 

In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day, 

Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky, 

Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost, 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 

By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost. 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  the  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly; 
Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide 
Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind; 
And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp. 
Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp. 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings. 
Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own, 
Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess. 
Was — "Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless!" 

The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 

As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch, 


Poetry — LowelVs.  455 

And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night 

The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold. 

Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old. 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 

Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 

Part  Second. 
There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree, 
The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak. 

For  the  weaver  Winter  its  shroud  had  spun; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun; 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold. 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate. 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate; 

An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail. 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail; 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  cross, 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore. 

The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment,  thin  and  spare. 

Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air. 

For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time; 

So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime. 

And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago: 

He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 

O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small. 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one. 

He  can  count  thje  camels  in  the  sun. 

As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 

To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 

The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade, 

And  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played. 

And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 


456        Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789 

"For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms;" — 
The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring, 
But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsome  thing, 
Tht  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 
That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 
And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 
In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 


And  Sir  Launfal  said,  "  I  behold  in  thee 

An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree; 

Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns — 

Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buifets  and  scorns — 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 

The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side: 

Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me; 

Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  thee!" 

Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise 

He  had  flung  an  alms  toJeprosie, 
When  he  girt  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust. 
He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink, 
'Twas  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'Twas  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl — 
Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed, 

And  'twas  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty  soul. 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place ; 

The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 

But  stood  before  Him  glorified. 

Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 

As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate — 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 

Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 


Poetry — LowelVs.  457 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves  from  the  pine, 
And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brine, 
Which  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 
"With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon; 
And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than  silence  said, 
"Lo,  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid! 
In  many  climes,  without  avail, 
Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail; 
Behold  it  is  here — this  cup  which  thou 
Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  me  but  now; 
This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee, 
This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the  tree; 
The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed. 
In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need; 
Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share — 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare; 
Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three-=' 
Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 
Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound : — 
"  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found! 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall, 
Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet  hall ; 
He  must  be  fenQcd  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 

The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 

And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall " 
As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough; 

No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 
The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er; 
When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door. 
She  entered  with  him  in  disguise, 
And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise ; 
There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 
She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole  year  round; 
The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 
Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command ; 
And  there's  no  poor  man  in  the  Korth  Countree 
But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 


408       Literature  of  Period  YIIL,  1789  - 

Whittier's  The  Eternal  Goodness. 

0  friends  !  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod 
The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer, 

Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
And  love  of  man  I  bear. 

1  trace  your  lines  of  argument ; 

Your  logic,  linked  and  strong, 
I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 
And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak 

To  hold  your  iron  creeds ; 
Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 

My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought  ? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan? 
The  Lord  is  God  !    He  needeth  not 

The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 
Ye  tread,  with  boldness  shod; 

I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 
The  love  and  power  of  God. 

Ye  praise  His  justice ;  even  such 

His  pitying  love  I  deem : 
Ye  seek  a  king  ;  I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam. 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  w^orld  of  pain  and  loss; 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes, 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 

More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  within 

Mj^self,  alas!   I  know; 
Too  dark  ye  cannot  paint  the  sin, 

Too  small  the  merit  show. 

I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 
I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame. 

And  urge,  in  trembling  self-distrust, 
A  prayer  without  a  claim. 


Poetry —  Whittiefs.  459 


I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within, 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  ^n. 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 
And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 

To  one  fixed  stake  my  spirit  clings; 
I  know  that  God  is  good ! 

Not  mine  to  look  where  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see, 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above  ; 
I  know  not  of  His  hate, — I  know 

His  goodness  and  His  love. 

I  dimly  guess,  from  blessings  known. 

Of  greater  out  of  sight, 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  oWn 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone, 
For  vanished  smiles  I  long; 

But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 
And  He  can  do  no  wrong. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And,  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break. 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have. 
Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove  ; 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 
And  plead  His  love  for  love. 


460       Literature  of  Period  VIIL,  1789 

And  so,  beside  the  Silent  Sea, 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar  ; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  op  shore. 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 
Their  fronded  palms  in  air  ; 

I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 
Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

O  brothers  !  if  my  faith  is  vain, 
If  hopes  like  these  betray, 

Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 
The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  Thou,  O  Lord,  by  whom  are  seen 
Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 

Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 
My  human  heart  on  Thee! 


Scheme  for  Review. 


461 


Scheme  for  Eeview. 


Brief  Historical  Sketch 268 

TMiss  Austen  and  Scott 269 

Extract  from  Scott 271 

Lytton,    Bronte,    Thacke- 
ray, Dickens,  and  Geo. 

Eliot 277 

His-  j  Hallam,  Macaulay,  Mil- 
toJT.  "j     man,  and  Napier. . .     278 
Biogra-  j  Lockhart,   Southey, 

phy.      I     Forster,  &  Stanley  279 

Theo.  jP9,ley  and  Coleridge. .  279 

'-**•   I  John  Henry  Newman.  280 

[Thackeray 281 

I     I  Macaulay 286 

si -{Newman 289 

Geo.  Eliot 292 

Dickens 301 

fMill,    Hamilton,    Ben- 
^^^  [     tham,  and  Blackstone  307 
Misc.  I  Burke,     Carlyle,      and 

^**'   [    Buskin 308 

Ext'sj  Carlyle 310 

from  y  De  Quincey 316 

fThe  Law  of  Colonics. ...  320 

American  Literature    of 

the  Seventeenth  Cent.. 

Ext.  from  John  Smith  . . 

American   Literature    of 

the  Eighteenth  Cent. .  . 

Extract  from  Edwards . . 

Ext.  from  Benj.  Franklin  335 

Ext.  from  John  Adams. .   838 

American    Literature    of 

the  Nineteenth  Cent. . .  340 


324 
326 

329 
332 


•^  0 


Irving  and  Extracts  from  344 

Prescott  and  Motley 350 

Holmes  and  Ext.  from. .  351 
Emerson  and  Ext.  from.  356 
Hawthorne,  Ext.  from. .  362 
The  Fr.  Rev.  and  the  Poets. .  366 
Crabbe,  Bloomfield,  Southey, 

and  Coleridge 367 

Wordsworth— Man    and    Na- 
ture    369 

Extracts  from 374 

Scott 384 

Campbell,  Rogers,  and  Moore.  385 

Extracts  from  Campbell 387 

Extract  from  Moore 389 

Byron — Position  as  a  Poet. . .  389 

Extracts  from 392 

Shelley 399 

Extract  from 403 

Keats 406 

Extract  from 408 

Tennyson 410 

Extracts  from 412 

Morris  and  Others 421 

Extract  from  Morris 422 

Bryant 429 

Extracts  from 430 

Longfellow 438 

Extract  from 440 

Whittier 446 

Lowell 446 

Extracts  from 448 

Extract  from  Whittier. . .  458 


II 

fH    0 

a 


INDEX, 

BIOGKAPHIOAL  AND   TOPICAL. 


Adams,  John 

Addison,  Joseph,  b.  at  Milston,  in 
1672;  entered  Queen's  College,  Ox- 
ford; a  good  scholar  and  a  writer  of 
Latin  verse ;  intended  for  the  Church, 
but  Halifax  persuaded  him  to  enter 
the  service  of  the  state;  a  pension 
of  £300  in  1699;  visited  France  and 
Italy;  lost  the  pension,  and  returned 
1703;  wrote  The  Campaign  in  praise 
of  Marlborough;  under-secretary  of 
state  in  1706;  M.  P.  in  1708;  secretary 
to  Lord  Wharton,  Lord  Lieutenant 
of  Ireland,  with  salary  of  £2000,  1709; 
began  with  Steele  The  Spectator — a 
daily  from  March  1, 1711,  to  December, 
1712,  and  revived  as  a  tri-weekly  in 
1714.  Again  secretary  to  Lord  Lieuten- 
ant of  Ireland ;  took  his  seat  at  the 
Board  of  Trade  in  1715,  and  began  The 
Freeholder;  married  the  countess- 
dowager  of  Warwick  in  1716,  and  lived 
three  years  to  regret  it;  secretary  of 
state,  1717 ;  d.  1719 195,  219-24 

Adhelm,  b.  about  656,  in  Wessex; 
taught  by  the  learned  Adrian;  entered 
the  monastery  at  Malmesbury  at  the 
age  of  sixteen;  afterwards  abbot; 
went  to  Rome ;  upon  his  return  helped 
to  settle  the  dispute  concerning  the 
celebration  of  Easter:  d.  707 28 

iElfred,  b.  in  Berkshire  848;  sent  at  the 
age  of  five  to  Rome  and  again  at  the 
age  of  seven;  remained  there  a  year; 
came  to  the  throne,  871 ;  driven  by  the 
Danes  from  it;  routed  them  at  Ed- 
dington,  878;  was  recognized  as  king 
of  all  England,  886;  rebuilt  London 
that  year;  kingdom  again  invaded  by 


the  Danes,  894;  iElfred  defeated  them 
in  several  battles,  and  drove  them 
from  the  island;  is  said  by  some  to 
have  founded  Oxford;  d.  901....  32-^4. 

uElfric,  "the  grammarian,"  studied  at 
Abington;  went  thence  to  Winchester; 
became  a  monk;  bishop  of  Wilton; 
Archbishop  of  Canterbmy,  995;  d. 
1006 34 

American  I^iterature,  Prose..  320-865 
Poetry.  429-460 

Ascham,  Roger,  b.  about  1515;  took 
his  B.A.  at  Cambridge,  1534;  college 
lecturer  on  Greek  in  1537;  Toxophilus, 
1544;  famous  for  his  penmanship; 
tutor  to  princess  Elizabeth ;  Latin  Sec- 
retary to  Queens  Mary  and  Elizabeth ; 
Tlie  Schoolmaster  published  by  his 
widow,  1570;  believed  that  boys 
could  be  lured  to  learning  by  love 
better  than  driven  to  it  by  beating;  d. 
1568  73 

Austen,  Miss,  b.  at  Steventon,  1775; 
educated  by  her  father;  novels  pic- 
ture the  life  of  the  middle  classes; 
Scott  says  that  her  talent  for  describ- 
ing the  characters  of  ordinary  life  was 
most  wonderful;  d.  1817 269 

Bacon,  L.ord,  b.  at  London,  1561,  son 
of  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  and  nephew  of 
Lord  Burleigh;  studied  at  Cambridge; 
visited  France ;  returned  to  England 
at  his  father's  death,  1579;  admitted 
to  the  bar,  1582;  M.  P.,  1589.  and  sat 
in  every  Parliament  till  1614;  was  a 
noted  speaker.  "The  fear  of  every 
man  who  heard  him  was,  that  he 
should  make  an  end,"  says  Ben 
Jonson ;  was  counsellor-extraordinary 


434 


Index^  BiograpJiical  and  Topiccd. 


to  the  queen,  1590;  an  unsuccessful 
candidate  for  the  office  of  soUcitor- 
general,  1594;  received  from  his  friend, 
the  Earl  of  Essex,  an  estate  worth  in 
our  money,  to-day,  $40,000;  obhged  by 
his  position  to  appear  against  Essex 
in  his  trial  for  treason;  knighted,  1603; 
solicitor-general,  1607;  attorney-gen- 
eral, 1613;  keeper  of  the  great  seal, 
1617;  lord  high  chancellor,  1618;  Baron 
Verulam,  1618;  Viscount  Saint  Albans, 
1619;  Novum  Organum,  a  part  of  the 
Instauratio  Magna,  or  Great  Resto- 
ration, 1620;  accused  of  taking  bribes, 
by  one  Waynham,  against  whom  he 

.  had  decided  a  suit  in  chancery ;  sen- 
tenced, 1621,  to  pay  £40,000  and  to  im- 
prisonment; fine  remitted  and  he  set 
at  liberty  by  the  king;  d  1626. 

98,  99,  104-107 

Bseda,  b.  in  the  coimty  of  Durham, 
672;  placed  at  the  age  of  seven  under 
Benedict  Biscop,  in  the  monastery  of 
Wearmouth;  deacon  at  nineteen  and 
priest  at  thirty;  lived  at  Jarrow 
(YaiTOw):  d.  735 31 

Bale 123 

Ballads,  Chevy  Chase 76-79 

Barbour,  John,  b.  1316,  at  Aberdeen; 
became  archdeacon  of  Aberdeen :  vis- 
ited Oxford  to  complete  his  studies; 
d.  1396 82 

Barrow,  Isaac,  b.  in  London,  1630; 
M.A.  at  Cambridge  in  1652;  ordained, 
and  made  professor  of  Greek  at  Cam- 
bridge, 1660;  professor  of  mathemat- 
ics, 1663;  resigned  in  favor  of  his 
pupil,  Isaac  Newton,  1669;  master  of 
Trinity  College  in  1672;  d.  1677 201 

Baxter,  Richard,  b.  in  Shropshire, 
1615;  ordained,  1638;  vicar  of  Kidder- 
minster, 1640;  chaplain  to  one  of  Crom- 
well's regiments,  1645;  SainVs  Ever- 
lasting Rest,  1649;  chaplain  to  Charles 
II.,  1660;  refused  the  offer  of  a  bish- 
opric: ejected  from  the  Anglican 
Church  by  Act  of  Uniformity,  1662; 
fined  500  marks  by  Jeffries  on  charge 
of  sedition,  1685;  imprisoned  18  months 
for  non-payment;  his  works  are  168 
in  all;  d.  1691 153 


Beattie,  James 244,  247 

Beaumont    &   Fletcher,  the  one  b. 

1586  in  Leicestershire ;  educated  at  Ox- 
ford; studied  law;  d.  1616.  Thepther 
b.  in  Northamptonshire  1576;  edu- 
cated at  Cambridge:  and  d.  1625;  as- 
sociated in  authorship,  producing  a 
great  number  of  plays.   F.  wrote  after 

the  death  of  B 146,  147 

Bentham,  Jeremy,  b.  in  London,  1748; 
graduated  at  Oxford,  1766;  admitted 
to  the  bar,  1772;  Fragment  on  Govern- 
ment, 1776;  Introduction  to  the  Prin- 
ciples of  Morals  and  Legislation,  1789; 
he  made  utility  the  test  and  measure 
of  virtue,  and  held  that  laws  should 
promote  the  greatest  happiness  of  the 
greatest  number;  published  other 
works;  Macaulay  says  he  f oimd  juris- 
prudence  a   gibberish   and  left  it  a 

science:  d.  1832 307 

Beowulf 24-26 

Berkeley,  Bishop,  b.  at  Kilcrin,  Ire- 
land, 1684;  New  Theory  of  Vision, 
1709,  and  Principles  of  Human  Knowl- 
edge, 1710;  Dean  of  Derry,  1724;  came 
to  this  country,  1728,  to  found  a  college; 
preached  two  years  in  Newport; 
abandoned  the  project  of  a  college 
and  returned;  Minute  Philosopher, 
1783:  bishop  of  Cloyne,  1734;  d.  17.53..219. 
Berners,  Lord,  educated  at  Oxford; 
travelled  abroad;  governor  of  Calais 
under  Henry  VIII. ;  chancellor  of  the 
exchequer;   translated  Froissart  and 

other  works;  d.  1532 73 

Blackstone,  Sir  Wm 308 

Blair,  Robert 211 

Blake,  Wm 249,  250 

Blank- Verse 89 

Blind  Harry 82 

Bloomfield,  Robt 367 

Boswell  235 

Boyle,  Robt 201 

Bronte,  Charlotte  (Currer  Bell),  h 
at  Thornton,  1816;  taught  school ;  went 
to  Brussels;  she  and  her  sisters  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  poems.  1846;  her 
Jane  Eyre,  1M7;  Shirley J8i9;  Villette, 
1852;  TJie  Professor,  1856;  married 
Rev.  A.  B.  Nichols,  1854;  d.  1855  ...277 


Index^  Biographical  and  Topical. 


465 


Brooke,  Henry 229 

Broivne,  Sir  Thomas,  b.  in  London, 
1605;  M.D.  in  Norwich  many  years; 
Religio  Medici,  1643;  Hydrotaphia, 
1658;  knighted,  1671;  d.  on  his  77th 
birthday 152,  159-161 

Browne,  William  163 

Browning,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barrett, 
b.  near  Ledbury,  1809;  Prometheus 
Bound,  1833;  Romaunt  of  the  Page, 
1839;  two  volumes  of  poems,  1844;  mar- 
ried Robert  Browning,  1846;  Casa 
Guidi  Windows,  1851;  Aurora  Leigh, 
1856;  d.  1861..: 410,411 

Browning,  Kobert,  b.  at  Camberwell, 
1812;  educated  at  the  University  of 
London;  Paracelsus,  1835;  two  volumes 
of  poems,  1849;  Men  and  Women, 
1855;  Ring  and  the  Book,  1868..  410,  411 

Bryant,  William  Cnllen,  biography 
and  works,  see  text 429-38 

Buckingham,  Duke  of 194 

Bulwer,  Baron  Lytton,  b.  in  Norfolk, 
1805;  graduated  at  Cambridge,  1826; 
visited  France,  and  on  his  return  pub- 
lished Falkland,  1827;  Pelham,  1829; 
M.  P.  for  St.  Ives,  1831,  and  repre- 
sented the  city  of  Lincoln,  1832-41; 
Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  1834;  Rienzi 
and  many  other  novels  and  dramas,  as 
Richelieu  and  Lady  of  Lyon  s,  followed ; 
knighted,  1838;  Lord  Rector  of  Glas- 
gow, 1856;  became  a  peer,  1866:  d. 
1873 .277 

Bunyan,  John,  b.  at  Elstow,  1628; 
learned  the  trade  of  a  tinker;  served 
in  the  Parliamentaiy  army,  1645; 
a  Baptist  preacher,  1655;  sentenced 
to  transportation  as  a  promoter  of 
seditious  assemblies,  sentence  not 
executed ;  imprisoned  in  Bedford  jail, 
1660-1672;  Pilgrim's  Progress,  1678- 
84;  Holy  War,  1684;  author  of  sixty 
volumes,  great  and  small;  d.  1688. 
172,  173,  176-9 

Burke,  Edmund,  b.  in  Dublin,1729;  en- 
tered Trinity  College,  DubUn ;  studied 
law  in  England;  Vindication  of  Na- 
tional Society,  1756;  essay  on  the  5m6- 
lime  and  Beautiful,  1757;  M.  P.  for 
Wendower,  1765,  re-elected,  1768;  made    i 


a  speech  on  American  taxation  in  1774 
M.  P.  for  Bristol,  1774;  another  great 
speech  on  the  American  question 
1775;  paymaster  of  the  forces,  1782; 
spoke  on  the  East  India  Bill,  1783;  on 
the  debts  of  the  nabob  of  Arcot,  1785 
was  leading  manager  in  the  impeach 
ment  of  Hastings  begim  1787;  made 
his  memorable  speech  in  1788;  Reflec- 
tions on  the  Revolution  in  France 
1790;  d.  1797. 239,  240,  242,  308. 

Burnet,  Bishop  201,  204 

Burney,  Miss,  b.  at  Lynn-Regis,  1' 
daughter  of  Dr.  Charles  Burney,  an 
eminent  musician ;  moved  to  London 
1760;  father  intimate  with  Johnson, 
Burke,  etc.;  she  produced  Evelina. 
1778;  Cecilia,  1782;  she  was  made 
second  keeper  of  the  robes  of  Queen 
Charlotte,  1786;  married  to  Count 
D'Arblay,    1793;    d.  at  Bath  in    1840, 

229 

Burns,  Robert,  b.  near  Ayr,  Scotland, 
1759;  moved  with  his  father  to  Mount 
Oliphant  and  to  Lochlea;  educated 
mostly  at  home;  after  his  father's 
death,  he  moved,  1784,  to  Mossgiel; 
wrote  many  of  his  best  poems,  1784-6; 
published  a  volume  of  them  in  1786; 
resolved  to  migrate  to  the  West  In- 
dies, but  the  success  of  his  book  led 
him  to  abandon  his  resolution;  was 
lionized  in  Edinburgh  during  the 
winter  of  "86  and  '87;  second  edition  of 
his  poems,  published  in  Edinburgh, 
brought  him  £500;  made  several  tours 
in  Scotland  during  1^87;  spent  the  next 
winter  in  Edinburgh ;  took  the  farm  of 
Ellisland  near  Dumfries;  became  an 
exciseman  to  eke  out  his  fortune,  and 
afterwards  removed  to  Dumfries, 
where  he  died,  1796 258-67 

Burton,  Robert,  b.  at  Lindley,  1576; 
educated  at  Oxford;  vicar  of  St. 
Thomas,  Oxford,  1616;  Anatomy  of 
Melancholy,  1621; an  "amusing and  in- 
structive medley  of  quotations  and 
classical  anecdotes,"  says  Byron,  com- 
posed to  cure  himself  of  melancholy; 
rector  of  Segrave,  1628;  d.  1639 153 

Butler,  Bishop,  b.  at  Wantage,  1692, 


466. 


Index,  Biographical  and  Topical, 


entered  Oxford  in  1714;  preacher  at 
the  Rolls  Chapel,  1718;  obtained  the 
rich  living  of  Stanhope,  1725;  chaplain 
to  Lord  Chancellor  Talbot,  1733; 
bishop  of  Bristol,  1738,  and  of  Dur- 
ham, 1750;  d.  1752.  His  Analogy, 
1736,  Lord  Brougham  says,  is  "the 
most  argumentative  and  philosophical 
defence  of  Christianity  ever  submit- 
ted to  the  world." 201 

Butler,  Samuel,  b.  in  Worcestershire, 
about  1600;  entered  the  service  of  Sir 
Sam.  Luke,  an  officer  under  Cromwell, 
supposed  to  be  the  original  of  Hudi- 
bras  in  the  poem;  parts  of  Hudibras, 
1663,  1664,  1678;  hostile  to  the  Puri- 
tans; d.  1680 191,  192 

Byron,  George  Gordon,  b.  in  Lon- 
don, 1788;  became  Lord  Byron  by  the 
death  of  a  grand  uncle,  1798;  went  to 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  1805, 
where  he  remained  two  years;  Hours 
of  Idleness,  1807;  attacked  in  the  Ed. 
Rev.,  and  he  replied  in  the  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  1807; 
took  a  two  years'  tour  through  Portu- 
gal, Spain,  Turkey,  and  Greece; 
cantos  I.  and  II.  of  Childe  Harold, 
1812,  and  awoke  one  morning  to  find 
himself  famous;  in  the  House  of 
Lords;  published  many  of  his  poems; 
married  Miss  Millbanke,  1815;  she  left 
him  with  their  little  daughter,  and 
Byron  never  saw  either  again ;  left  for 
the  continent,  1816;  wrote  canto  III. 
of  Childe  Harold  at  Geneva;  lived 
awhile  in  Venice,  and  then  at  Ra- 
venna, Pisa,  Genoa;  wrote  canto  IV. 
of  Childe  Harold,  and  other  poems, 
while  in  Italy ;  left  Italy  for  Greece  in 

1823;  d.  at  Missolonghi.  1824 389-99. 

Csedmon,  a  native  of  Northumbria; 
originally  a  cow-herd;  entered  the 
monastery  at  Whitby ;  wrote  a  Para- 
phrase of  portions  of  the  Bible;   d. 

about  680 20-28 

Campbell,  Thos.,  b.  at  Glasgow,  1777; 
educated  at  the  Grammar-School  and 
the  University;  Pleasures  of  Hope, 
1799;  secured  a  pension  of  £200; 
Poems,  1803;  Rector  of  the  University, 


1827;  re-elected,  1828  and  '29;  other 
poems  and  miscellaneous  writings; 
moved  to  London,  1840;  at  Boulogne 

from  1842  till  his  death,  1844 ,385-9 

Capgrave,  John '. ..  70 

Carew,  Thomas 162 

Carey 211 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  b.  at  Ecclefechan, 
Scotland,  1795;  entered  the  University 
of  Edinburgh,  1809  or  1810,  where  he 
remained  seven  years;  married  Miss 
Welch,  1825,  and  settled  on  a  farm  in 
his  native  county;  Life  of  Schiller, 
1824,  and  a  translation  of  Goethe's 
William  Meister;  Sartor  Resartus, 
1834;  removed  to  London  that  year; 
History  of  the  French  Revolution,  1837; 
delivered  lectures  on  Heroes  and  Hero- 
loorship,  in  London,  1840;  five  volumes 
of  Essays  entitled  Miscellanies,  1839 
or  '40;  Life  of  Sterling,  1851;  and  Life 
of  Frederick   the  Great,  1858-64;   d. 

1 881 279,  308-15 

Caxton,  b.  about  1412;  a  London  mer- 
chant; lived  30  years  from  1441  in  the 
Low  Countries;  learned  the  art  of 
printing  there;  first  book  printed  by 
him  was  a  translation  from  the  French 
—  The  Game  and  Play  of  the  Chess; 
translated,  wrote,  and  printed  indus- 
triously; in  all  he  published  64  vol- 
umes; d.  1491 71,72 

Chalkhill 164 

Chapman,  George,  b  1557;  enjoyed 
the  society  and  friendship  of  Spenser 
and  Shakespeare;  published  transla- 
tions of  the  Iliad,  1598,  and  of  the 
Odyssey,  1614;  wrote  many  comedies 
and  tragedies;  and  d.  1634.. ..120,  148-9 

Chatterton,  Thos 244 

Chaucer,  b.  in  London,  it  is  now 
thought,  1340;  was  page  to  Lionel,  3d 
son  of  Ed.  III. ;  in  the  English  army  in 
France  in  1359;  valet  of  the  king's 
chamber  in  1367;  employed  on  royal 
missions  to  Italy,  France,  and  Flan- 
ders, 1.370-80;  held  offices  in  the  cus- 
toms for  some  years,  from  1374;  M.P. 
for  Kent,  1.386;  dismissed  from  his 
place  in  the  customs,  1386;  received 
other  appointments,  1389;  lost  thena 


Index,  Biographical  and  Topical, 


467 


and  became  poor;  restored  to  royal 

favor  in  1399;  d.  1400 53-69 

Chillingworth 201 

Chroniclers 48 

Clarendon,  £arl  of  (Edward  Hyde), 
born  at  Dinton,  1608;  educated  at  Ox- 
ford ;  member  of  the  Long  Parliament ; 
of  the  popular  party  at  first,  after- 
ward a  royaUst;  chancellor  of  the 
exchequer,  and  pri^y  councillor,  1643; 
with  Charles  in  his  long  exile  in 
France  and  Holland;  prime  minister 
and  lord  chancellor,  1660;  Earl  of 
Clarendon,  1661 ;  impeached  and  ban- 
ished, 1667;  d.  at  Rouen,  1674.  Anne, 
his  daughter,  was  married  to  the  Duke 

of  York,  afterwards  James  II 204 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  b.  at  Liver- 
pool, 1819;  some  years  of  his  childhood 
spent  in  this  country;  educated  at 
Rugby  and  Oxford ;  Principal  of  Uni- 
versity Hill,  London;  visited  U.  S. 
again,  1852;  held  a  post  in  the  Educa- 
tion Office;  Poems  appeared,  1840-50; 

d.  at  Florence,  1861 410,  411 

Coleridge, Samuel  Taylor,b.at  Otterj" 
Saint  Mary,  1772;  entered  Jesus  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  1790,  but  left  with- 
out a  degree;  resolved  to  migrate 
with  Southey  to  America  and  found  a 
republic,  or  pantisocracy,  but  did  not 
do  it ;  lectured  on  moral  and  political 
subjects  at  Bristol,  1795;  preached  a 
little  for  the  Unitarians;  visited  Ger- 
many with  Wordsworth,  1798;  in  1800 
removed  to  the  Lake  district,  where 
Southey  and  Wordsworth  were;  in 
1805  renounced  Unitarianism  for  Epis- 
copacy ;  lectured  on  Shakespeare  and 
the  fine  arts  at  the  Royal  Institution, 
1808;  in  1810  left  his  wife  and  daughter 
for  Southey  to  support;  began  tak- 
ing opium  to  excess;    d.  1834, 

279,  367-69 

Collins 246 

Congreve 195 

Coverdale,  Miles,  b.  in  Yorkshire, 
1485;  took  holy  orders  in  1514;  em- 
braced the  Reformed  religion;  pub- 
lished the  entire  Bible,  1535;  edited 
the  Cranmer  Bible,  1539;    bishop  of 


Exeter,  1551;  imprisoned  and  exiled; 

returned  about  1558;   d.  1565 74 

Cowley,  Abraham,  b.  in  London,  1618; 
a  volume  of  poems,  1633;  entered 
Cambridge,  1636;  ejected  as  a  royalist, 
1643;  went  with  the  queen  to  Paris 
1646;  the  agent  of  the  cipher-corre- 
spondence between  her  and  Charles 
I.;  failed  of  the  expected  reward  at 
the  Restoration;  numerous  poems 
and  writings  in  prose;  settled  at 
Chertsey  as  a  farmer,  1665;  d.  1667. 
164, 191 
Cowper,  "William,  b.  at  Great  Berk- 
hamstead,  1731;  educated  at  a  private 
school  and  at  Westminster;  articled  to 
a  solicitor,  a  Mr.  Chapman:  excite- 
ment produced  by  his  appointment  to 
two  clerkships  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
and  his  disappointment  because  Ashly 
Cowper  refused  him  his  daughter  in 
marriage  prepared  the  way  for  an 
attack  of  insanity,  1763;  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  Unwins  at  Hvmting- 
don ;  after  Mr.  Unwin's  death  in  1767, 
he  removed  with  the  family  to  Olney; 
wrote  the  Olney  Hymns  there ;  Table 
Talk  and  other  poems,  1782;  The  Task 
and  other  poems,  1785;  his  Translation 

of  Homer,  1791 ;  d.  1800 250-58 

Crabbe,  George,  b.  at  Aldborough, 
1754;  went  to  London;  assisted  by 
Edmund  Burke;  The  Library.  1781; 
ordained,  1782;  The  Village,  1783;  Par- 
ish Register,  1807;  The  Borough,  1810; 
Tales  in  Verse,  1812;  Tales  of  the  Hall, 

1819;  d.  1832 367 

Cranmer,  Thomas,  bom  at  Aslacton, 
Nottinghamshire,  1489 ;  a  fellow  of 
Jesus  College,  Cambridge :  chaplain 
to  Henry  VIH. ;  went  to  Rome  to  se- 
cure the  pope's  assent  to  Henry's 
divorce  from  Catharine;  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury.  1533;  excommunicated, 
1555;  recanted,  but  was  burnt  at  the 

stake,  1556 74 

Crashaw 164 

Crowne,  John 195 

Coryat 153 

Cynewulf,  a  monk  at  Winchester;  ab- 
bot of  Peterborough  about  992;  d.  1008. 


468 


Index^  Biographical  and  Topical. 


Authorities  concerning  him  disagree. 

29 

Daniel,  Samuel,  b.  at  Taunton,  1562; 
educated  at  Oxford ;  lived  in  London ; 
associated  with  Shakespeare;  tutor  to 
Anne  Clifford,  Countess  of  Pembroke; 
master  of  the  queen's  revels,  1603; 
said  to  have  succeeded  Spenser  as 
poet-laureate ;  d.  1619 99,  118 

Davenant,  b.  at  Oxford,  1605;  poet- 
laureate,  1637;  a  royalist  in  the  civil 
war,  and  knighted  by  Charles  I.,  1643; 
confined  in  the  Tower,  and  owed  his 
safety  to  Milton;  d.  1688 149,  191 

Davies,  Sir  John,  b.  in  Wiltshire, 
1570;  gi-aduated  at  Oxford ;  Nosce  Teip- 
sum,  1599;  solicitor-general  of  Ireland, 
1603;  attorney -general  soon  after; 
knighted,  1607;  a  work  on  the  political 
state  of  Ireland,  1612;  M.  P.,  1621;  lord 
chief -justice,  1626;  d.  1626 119 

Defoe,  Daniel,  b.  in  London,  1663; 
joined  the  rebels  under  Monmouth, 
1685;  became  a  tradesman;  wrote 
countless  pamphlets;  Robinson  Cru- 
soe, 1719;  for  his  ironical  Shortest  Way 
with  Dissenters,  fined,  pilloried,  and 
imprisoned:  helped  to  promote  the 
union  of  Scotland  with  England;  d. 
1731 219 

Denhain,  Sir  John 191 

De  Quincey,  Thos.,  b.  at  Manchester, 
1785 ;  so  mastered  Greek  at  Bath  that 
his  teacher  said  he  could  harangue  an 
Athenian  mob ;  ran  away  in  1802  from 
the  grammar-school  of  Manchester; 
lived  in  obscurity  and  great  poverty 
in  London;  entered  Oxford,  1803, 
where  he  remained  five  years;  con- 
tracted there  the  habit  of  taking 
opium;  lived  twenty  years  at  Gras- 
mere;  married,  1816;  gave  himself  to 
literary  pursuits, writing  mostly  essays 
for  the  magazines  on  philosophical, 
biographical,  and  other  topics;  lived 
also  in  Glasgow  and  Edinburgh;  d. 
1859 308,  315-19 

Dickens,  Charles,  b.  at  Landport, 
Portsmouth,  1812;  studied  in  a  college 
near  Rochester;  in  an  attorney's  of- 
fice; became  a  reporter  for  the  Morn- 


ing Chronicle;  Sketches  by  Boz,  1836; 
Pickwick  Papers,  1837;  Oliver  Twist, 
1838;  Nicholas  Nickleby,  1839;  visited 
the  United  States  1841 ;  and  American 
Notes  and  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  describ- 
ing life  and  character  here,  followed; 
his  other  novels  appeared  between 
1840  and  1865;  chief  editor  for  a  while 
of  Daily  News,  1845;  started  House- 
hold Words,  a  weekly  periodical,  1850; 
All  the  Year  Round,  1859;  made  a  sec- 
ond visit  to  the  United  States,  1867, 
and  read  from  his  works  in  all  the 
principal  cities;  d.  1870,  leaving  ^dtwtn 

Drood  unfinished 278,  301-7 

Distribution  of  the  Language  and 

liiterature 23 

Donne,  John,  162. 

Douglas,  Gawin,  b.  1474;  finished  his 
education  at  the  University  of  Paris 
and  entered  the  Church;  became  bish- 
op of  Dunkeld,  1515 ;  d.  1522 84,  85 

Drayton 118 

Drumnaond 117 

Dryden,  John,  b.  at  Aldwinkle,  1631 ; 
a  pupil  of  Dr.  Busby;  entered  Cam- 
bridge 1650;  M.A.  1657;  married  Lady 
Howard,  daughter  of  Earl  of  Berk- 
shire, 1663;  wrote  poems  from  1680  on; 
Poet-laureate,  1688,  salary  £200  a  year; 
d.  1700,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster 

Abbey 192-4, 196-200 

Dunbar,  b.  at  Salton,  Scotland,  about 
1465;  a  Franciscan  friar  and  preacher; 
employed  by  James  IV.  as  secretary 
of  embassy;  received  a  small  pension; 
The  Thistle  and  the  Rose,  1503;  d.  1530. 

84 

Dyer,  John 246 

Early  War  Poetry 29,  30 

Edgeworth,  Miss 269 

Edwards,    Jonathan  330,  332-5 

Elements  of  Scottish  Poetry.  80-82 
Eliot,  George  (Mrs.  Lewes),  b.  in  War- 
wickshire, about  1820;  carefully  edu- 
cated; a  pupil  of  Herbert  Spencer; 
translated  Strauss's  Life  of  Christ, 
1846;  associate  editor  of  West.  Rev.; 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  appeared,  1858; 
Adam  Bede,  1859;  Mill  on  the  Floss, 
1860;    Silas   Mamer,    1861  ;    Romola, 


Index ^  Biographical  and  Topical. 


469 


1863;  Felix  Holt,  1866;  Middlemarch, 
1871-2  ;  Daniel  Deronda,  1876  ;  has 
published  poetry  also;  d.  1881. 

278, 291-300 

Elyot,  Sir  Thomas  73 

Kmerson,   Ralph  Waldo,  biography 

and  works,  see  text 356-61 

English  Tongue 23 

Fairfax 120 

Ferguson,  Robert 249 

Ferrier,  Miss 277 

Fielding,  Henry,  b.  at  Sharpham 
Park,  1707;  founder  of  the  English 
family  was  a  German  count  in  Eng- 
land, who  in  the  13th  century  took  the 
name;  sent  to  Eton;  at  the  University 
of  Leyden  for  two  years ;  returned  and 
wrote  dramas;  married,  1735;  spent 
his  wife's  fortune;  commenced  the 
practice  of  law  in  1740;  Joseph  An- 
drews, his  first  novel,  1742;  others 
followed,  greatest  of  which  was  Tom 
Jones;  an  editor  and  a  pamphleteer; 

d.  1754 229-33 

Filmer,  Sir  H 202 

Fletcher,  Giles 164 

Fletcher,  Phineas 164 

Florio 99 

Ford 148 

Forster 279 

Fortescue,  Sir  John 70 

Fox,  John,  b.  in  Boston,  Lincolnshire, 
1517 ;  tutor  in  the  family  of  Sir 
Thos.  Lucy;  accused  of  heresy,  1545; 
expelled  from  his  fellowship  of  Mag- 
dalen College;  retired  to  the  Conti- 
nent; Book  of  Martyrs,  1563;  d.  1587. 

94 

Franklin,  Benj 3:30,  335-8 

Fuller,  Thomas,  b.  at  Aldwinkle, 
1608;  graduated  at  Cambridge,  1628; 
prebendary  of  Sarum,  1631;  member 
of  the  Convocation,  1640;  chaplain 
in  the  King's  army,  1644-46;  rector  of 
Waltham,  1648-58;  Church  History, 
1656;  chaplain  extraordinary  to  Chas. 
n.,  1660;    Worthies  of  England  after 

his  death,  1662;  d.  1661 152,  154-57 

Further  Remarks 18, 19 

Gascoigne,  b.  in  Essex,  about  1535; 
served  in  Holland  under  the  Prince  of 


Orange  ;  a  courtier  and  an  attendant 

of  Elizabeth's;  d.  1577 92, 124 

Gay,  b.  in  Devonshire,  1688  ;  published 
Rural  Sports,  dedicated  to  Pope,  1711; 
secretary  to  the  Duchess  of  Marlbor- 
ough, 1712;  secretary  to  Clarendon, 
ambassador  to  Hanover,  1714;  Tri- 
via, 1715;  lost  his  money  in  the  South 
Sea  Bubble,  and  was  a  dependant  on 
the  botmty  of  Duke  of  Queensberry 
from  1727  on;    Fables  and  Beggar's 

Opera,  1727;  d.  1732 195,  211 

Gait,  John 277 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth 43 

Gibbon,  Edward,  b.  at  Putney,  1737; 
studied  at  Westminster  and  Oxford; 
a  Roman  Catholic,  1753;  placed  under 
a  Protestant  minister  at  Lausanne, 
Switzerland,  1753-8;  studied  history, 
and  Latin  and  French  literature  there; 
entered  parliament  as  a  Tory,  1774; 
a  member  of  the  board  of  trade ;  lived 
at  Lausanne,  1783-93;  chiefly  occupied 
with  The  Decline  and  Fall— the  first 
vol.  appearing  in  1776,  and  the  last  in 

1788;  d.  1794 23^-39 

Godwin,  Wm 269 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  b.  at  Pallas,  Ire- 
land, 1728;  graduated  at  Dublin,  1749; 
prepared  for  the  ministry,  but  rejected 
by  the  bishop ;  sent  to  London  by  his  un- 
cle to  study  law,  but  on  the  way  spent 
his  money  in  gaming;  studied  medi- 
cine 18  months,  17.52-4,  in  Edinburgh; 
lived  abroad,  1754-6,  chiefly  at  Leyden; 
with  one  clean  shirt  and  no  money,  he 
set  out  on  foot  for  a  tour  of  Europe; 
in  London,  1756;  a  proof-reader,  an 
usher,  and  a  hack  writer;  published 
Present  State  of  Literature  in  Europe, 
1759;  Citizen  of  the  World,  1760;  The 
Traveller,  1764  ;  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
1766;  The  Good  Natured  Man,  1767; 
Deserted  Village,  1770;  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,  1773;  a  member  of  Johnson's 
celebrated  literary  club;  d.  1774. 

211,  229,  235,  242,  246 

Googe,  Barnaby  94 

Gosson,  Stephen 97 

Gower,  b.  (?);  owned  landed  prop- 
erty in  several  counties;  is  said  to 


470 


Index^  Biographical  and  Topical. 


hare  been  chief  justice  of  the  com- 
mon pleas;  bUnd  in  1400;  and  d.  1408 
45,46 

Grafton 95 

Gray,  Thomas,  b.  in  London,  1716;  ed- 
ucated at  Eton  and  at  Cambridge-,  vis- 
ited France  and  Italy,  1739,  with  Hor- 
ace Walpole  ;  took  his  degree  of 
bachelor  of  civil  law,  1742;  his  Elegy, 
1749;  refused  the  laureaj:eship,  made 
vacant  by  the  death  of  Gibber;  made 
professor  of  modern  history  at  Cam- 
bridge, 1769;  d.  in  1771 246 

Greek  taught  in  England 72 

Greene,  Robert,  b.  at  Norwich,  1560; 
B.A.  at  Cambridge,  1578;  travelled  in 
Italy  and  Spain;  associated  with 
Lodge,  Peele,  and  Marlowe;  novelist, 
poet,  and  dramatist ;  pubUshed  a 
pamphlet,  A  Qroatsworth  of  Wit 
Bought  with  a  Million  of  Repent- 
ance, warning  his  co-workers  against 
the  "  upstart  crow"  [Shakespeare] 
"beautified  with  their  feathers;"  d. 

of  a  drunken  debauch,  1592 126 

Habington 164 

Hakluyt 100 

Hales,  John 201 

Hall,  Joseph 162 

Hallam,  Arthur,  b.  at  Windsor,  1777; 
educated  at  Eton  and  Oxford;  studied 
law;  contributed  to  the  Ed.  Eev.; 
Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages,  1818; 
Constitutional  History  of  England, 
1827;  Introdxiction  to  the  Literature 
of  Europe,  1838-9;    Literary  Essays 

and  Characters,  1852;  d.  1859 277 

Hamilton,  Sir  Wm.,  b.  at  Glasgow, 
Scotland,  1788;  in  the  University  of 
Glasgow,  1803-6;  in  Oxford,  1807-10; 
studied  law;  in  1816  claimed  the  title 
of  Sir  in  abeyance  in  his  family  for 
nearly  a  century  before  him;  visited 
Germany,  1817,  and  again,  1820 ;  a  can- 
didate for  the  chair  of  moral  philoso- 
phy, in  the  Un.  of  Ed.,  vacant  by  the 
death  of  Dr.  Brown;  town  council 
elected  John  Wilson  (Christopher 
North);  professor  of  history  in  the 
University,  1821 ;  In  1829  wrote  his  cele- 
brated criticism  of  Cousin,  the  Philoso- 


phy of  the  Unconditioned;  contributed 
many  other  articles  to  the  Ed.  Eev.; 
elected  to  the  chair  of  metaphysics 
and  logic  in  the  University,  1836;  held 

it  till  his  death,  1856 307 

Harding,  John,  b.  1378;  fought  under 
Percy  at  Homildon ;  was  at  Agincourt ; 

d.  1465 70 

Harrington 120 

Harrington,  James 202 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel 362-5 

Henryson 38 

Herbert,  George 164 

Herrick,  Robert ..163 

Heywood,  John 123 

Historical  Sketches, 

20,  36,  69,  91, 151,  187-8,  225,  268-9 
Hobbes,  Thomas,  b.  at  Malmesbury, 
1588;  educated  at  Oxford;  in  1610, 
travelled  as  tutor  to  the  future  Earl 
of  Devonshire;  translated Thucydides, 
1628;  Human  Nature,  1650;  Levia- 
than, 1651;  a  royalist  in  the  civil  war; 
tutor  to  Charles  II.,  then  in  Paris,  in 
1647;  received  a  pension  of  £100  after 
the  Restoration ;  d.at  the  seat  of  his  pa- 
tron, the  Earl  of  Devonshire,  1679.. .  .202 

Hogg,  James ..259 

Holcroft 260 

Holinshed,  place  and  time  of  birth  un- 
known; Shakespeare  and  historians 
borrowed  largely  from  him;  d.  about 

1580 95 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  biogra- 
phy and  works,  see  text 351-6 

Hood,  Thomas,  b.  in  London,  1798; 
sub-editor  of  London  Magazine,  1821 ; 
Whims  and  Oddities,  1826;  published 
many  tales  and  poems ;  editor 
of   New  Monthly    Magazine;   began 

Hood's  Magazine,  1844;  d.  1845 367 

Hooker,  Richard,  b.  at  Heavytree, 
1553;  graduated  at  Oxford;  ordained 
1581 ;  married  a  scolding  wife ;  Master 
of  the  Temple,  1585;  he  and  his  col- 
league in  the  ministry,  Walter  Trav- 
ers,  a  Calvinist,  did  not  agree ;  retired 
to  the  rectory  of  Boscombe,  1591; 
Ecclesiastical  Polity,  1594-7;  rector 
of  Bishopsbourne  from  1595  till  his 
death  in  1600 98,  103, 104 


Index ^  Biographical  and  Topical.  471 


How  this  Work  is  to  be  Studied. 

15 

Hope,  Thomas 277 

Hume,  David,  b.  in  Edinburgh,  1711 ; 
entered  Edinburgh  University ;  began 
mercantile  life,  but  soon  gave  it  up ; 
went  to  France;  Treatise  on  Human 
Nature,  1738;  the  first  part  of  Moral 
and  Political  Essays,  1741-2;  reputa- 
tion for  skepticism  prevented  his  get- 
ting the  chair  of  moral  philosophy  in 
the  University,  1744;  Inquiry  concern- 
ing the  Human  Understanding,  17 A1!\ 
librarian  of  the  Advocates'  Library  in 
Edinburgh,  1751-6;  1st  vol  c&hx^  His- 
tory of  England,  1754;  Inquiry  con- 
cerning the  Principles  of  Morals,  1752; 
visited  Paris,  1763;  under-secretary  of 
state,  1767-8;  chief  of  the  literary  cir- 
cle in  Edinburgh ;  d.  1776 233 

Inchbald,  Mrs 229 

Influence  of  the  Italian    Revival. 

71 

Interludes 122 

Irving,  Washington,  biography  and 

works,  see  text 344-350. 

James  the  First  of  Scotland,  b.  1394; 
sent  to  France,  1405;  seized  by  a  Brit- 
ish fleet;  brought  to  London  and 
thrown  into  the  Tower;  released,  1424, 
after  19  j^ears  captivity,  and  restored 
to  his  kingdom;  checked  the  arro- 
gance of  the  Scottish  nobles;  a  con- 
spiracy   against   him;    assassinated, 

1437 82,83 

Johnson,  Samuel,  b.  at  Litchfield, 
1709;  entered  I'embroke  College,  Ox-  j 
ford,  1728;  compelled  to  leave,  1731; 
was  usher  and  hack-writer;  married 
in  1736,  and  opened  an  academy  in 
London,  1737;  made  literature  his  call- 
ing; London  appeared  in  1738;  re- 
ported the  debates  in  Parliament  for 
the  Oent.  Magazine,  1740;  Life  of 
Savage,  1744;  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes,  1749;  at  work  on  the  Diction- 
ary, 1747-55;  wrote  Rasselas  within  a 
single  week;  a  pension  settled  upon 
him,  1762;  the  centre  of  the  famous 
Literary  Club  formed  in  1764;  visited 
Scotland  and  the  Hebrides,  1773;  Lives 


of  the  Poets,  1779-81;  lived  a  long 
while  in  the  family  of  Mrs.  Thrale;  d. 
1784,  and  was  buried  in  West.  Abbey. 
235,  241,  242 
Jonson,  Ben,  b.  at  Westminster, 
1574;  entered  Cambridge,  1790; 
forced  by  poverty  to  leave,  and  to  as- 
sist his  step-father,  a  mason ;  disgusted 
with  this  labor,  enlisted  in  the  army 
in  Flanders ;  returned,  killed  a  brother- 
actor  in  a  duel;  while  in  prison  be- 
came a  Roman  Catholic,  but  returned 
to  the  Church  of  England;  his  great 
plays,  1596-1612;  Masques,  subsequent- 
ly; poet-laureate,  1619,  with  a  pension 
of  £100  and  a  tierce  of  canary;  inti- 
mate with  Shakespeare;  d.  1637,  and 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  with 
"O  rare   Ben  Jonson"  inscribed  on 

his  tombstone 138-146 

Keats,  John,  b.  in  London,  1796;  edu- 
cated at  Enfield ;  apprenticed  to  a  sur- 
geon, 1810;  his  first  poem,  1817;  Endy- 
mion,  severely  criticised  in  Black- 
tvood,  and  in  the  Quarterly  Review, 
1818;  third  vol.,  1820 ;  was  wasting 
away  with  consumption,  and  set  out 
for  Rome,  where  he  died,  1821.  Was 
buried  in  the  Protestant  cemetery 
there,  and  on  his  stone  is  this  inscrip- 
tion: Here  lies  one  whose  name  was 

writ  in  tvater 406-10 

Ken,  Bishop 193 

Killingfleet 201 

King's  English  in    14th  Century, 

51 

Kingsley,  Charles 278-80 

Knolles 99 

Langland,  b.  probably  at  Cleobury 
Mortimer,  1332;  educated  at  Oxford; 
a  fellow  of  Oriel  College ;  attached  to 
the    monastery  of    Great    Malvern; 

andd.  about  1400 40-42 

Latimer  Hugh,  b.  in  Leicestershire, 
1491;  graduated  at  Cambridge;  took 
holy  orders;  an  eloquent  preacher  of 
the  reformed  religion;  chaplain  to 
Anne  Boleyn,  and  bishop  of  Worces- 
ter, 1535;  resigned  his  bishopric, 
1539;  imprisoned  in  the  Tower  till 
1547;  burned  at  the  stake,  1555,  with 


472  Index,  Biographical  and  Topical. 


Ridley,  to  whom  he  said,  Be  of  good 
cheer,  brother;  we  shall  this  day  kin- 
dle such  a  torch  in  England  as  I  trust 

shall  never  be  extinguished 74 

liayamon 43-44 

Lee,  Nat 195 

liCland,  John,  b.  in  London  about 
1506;  took  his  degree  at  Cambridge, 
1522;  went  to  Oxford  and  to  the  Uni- 
versity of  Paris;  chaplain  and  hbra- 
rian  to  Henry  VIII. ;  received  the  title 
"King's  Antiquary"  about  1533;  stud- 
ied thoroughly  the  condition  of  Eng- 
land for  six  years ;  made  vast  accu- 
mulations, largely  unpublished  at  his 

death,  1552 73 

Iieighton,  Robert 153 

I^ingard,  John,  b.  at  Winchester,  1771; 
studied  at  Douay ;  ordained  a  Roman 
Catholic  priest,  1795;  published  His- 
tory of  England,  1819-25;  declined  a 
cardinal's  hat  soon  after;  author  of 
History  of  the  A.  S.Church;  d.l85\.  278. 
Liocke,  John,  b.  at  Wrington,  1632; 
educated  at  Christ's  College,  Oxford ; 
secretary  of  legation  at  Berlin,  1664  or 
1665;  in  1667  a  member  of  the  Earl  of 
Shaftesbury's  family,  and  directed  the 
education  of  his  son  and  grandson; 
visited  the  south  of  France  for  his 
health  in  1675 ;  with  his  patron  in  Hol- 
land from  1683-8;  filled  several  civil 
offices  on  his  return  to  England;  On 
the  Conduct  of  the  Understanding, 
1690;  Letters  on  Toleration,  1689-92; 
last  days  spent  at  the  house  of  Sir 
Francis  Masham;  d.  1704.... 202-3,  206-8 
liockhart,  John  Gibson,  b.  at  Cam- 
busnethan.  Scotland,  1794;  studied  at 
Glasgow  U.,  1807-111;  graduated  from 
Baliol  College,  Ox.,  as  bachelor  of  law; 
contributor  to  Blackwood,  1817;  mar- 
ried Sophia,  daughter  of  Scott,  1820; 
Editor  of  Quar.  Rev.,  1826-53;  Life  of 
Burns,  appeared  1825;  Life  of  Scott, 
1837-9;  d.  1854  at  Abbotsford,  the  seat 
of  his  daughter,  Lady  Hope,  the  only 
surviving  descendant  of  Sir  Walter, 
277,  279 
liongf allow,  Henry  Wadsworth,biog- 
raphy  and  works,  see  text 438-46 


:    liovelace 162 

I    liowell,   James    Russell,    biography 

I       and  works,  see  text 446-57 

Liydgate,  b.  1375;  a  monk  of  the  Abbey 
of  Bury  St.  Edmunds;  a  priest  in  1397; 
travelled   on   the  Continent;    taught 

school;  d.  about  1460 75 

I.yly 96,126 

Lyndsay,  Sir  David,  b.    1490;   in  the 


j       service  of  the  prince,  afterwards  King 
;       James  V.  of  Scotland,  1512-1524;   d. 

I        1557 85,86 

'  Macaulay,  L.ord,  b.  at  Rothley  Tem- 
ple, 1800;  entered  Trinity  College, 
Camb.,  1818;  admitted  to  the  bar, 
1826;  essay  on  Milton,  1826;  M.  P.  in 
1830;  made  celebrated  speeches  on  the 
Reform  bill,  1830-32,  and  on  the  re- 
newal of  the  charter  of  the  East  India 
Co.,  1833;  was  in  India,  1835-8;  M.  P. 
for  Edinburgh,  1838-47;  1st  and  2d 
vols,  of  History  of  England,  1848: 
rector  of  the  U.  of  Glasgow,  in  1849; 
■3d  and  4th  vols,  of  History,  in  1855; 
Baron  Macaulay  in  1857;  d.  1859. 

278,  286-8 

Macpherson 244 

Mallory,  Sir  Thomas .72 

Mandeville,  Bernard 219 

Mandeville,  Sir  John,  b.  at  St.  Albans 
about  1300;  educated  for  an  M.D.;  set 
out  for  the  East,  1322;  saw  service 
in  Egypt  with  the  Sultan ;  penetrated 
to  China;  returned,  and,  34  years  after 
he  began  his  travels,  wrote  his  Mun- 
chausen account  of  them;  d.  at  Liege. 

Belgium,  1372 49 

Marlowe,  b.  at  Canterbury,  1564;  grad- 
uated at  Cambi-idge,  1583;  first  part  of 
Tamburlaine,  1586;  Edward  //.,  1598; 
many  other  plays;  d.  of  a  wound  re- 
ceived in  a  quarrel,  1593 126-131 

Marryatt,  Capt 277 

Marvell,  Andrew 163,  191 

Massinger 147 

Mathers,  The  328 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  b.  in  London,  1806; 
educated  by  his  father;  read  Greek  at 
the  age  of  three;  went  to  France; 
studied  law ;  was  a  clerk  in  the  East 
India  Co.  for  35  j^ears;  contributed  to 


Indeco^  Biographical  and  Topical. 


473 


the  West.  Rev.,  and  from  18.35  to  '40 
was  its  principal  conductor;  System 
of  Logic,  1843;  Political  Economy, 
1848;  On  Liberty,  and  Dissertations 
and  Discussions,  1859;  M.  P.,  1865; 
resided  henceforth'  near  Avignon, 
France;  married  Mrs.  Ta3'lor,  1851; 
pubhshed  many  other  works ;  d.  1873. 
After   his  death  his  Autobiography, 

and  the  Three  Essays  appeared 307 

Milman,  Dean 279 

Milton,  b,  in  London.  Dec.  9,  1608;  en- 
tered Christ's  College,  Cambridge, 
1625;  left  Cambridge,  1632;  gave  up 
intention  of  being  a  minister;  spent  5 
years  at  home,  Horton;  after  the 
death  of  his  mother  in  1637,  visited 
Leyden,  Paris,  and  Rome;  on  his 
return  taught  a  few  pupils ;  married 
Mary  Powell,  1643;  she  left  him  in  one 
month,  but  returned;  Latin  secretary 
to  the  Council  of  State,  the  executive 
branch  of  the  Government,  1649-60; 
blind,  1654 ;  married  Catharine  Wood- 
stock in  1656,  and  Elizabeth  Minshull 
in  1663;  Paradise  Lost,  1667;  Paradise 
Regained,  and  Samson  Agonistes,lQ71 ; 
d.  1674.  He  and  his  widow  realized 
£18  from  Paradise  Lost. 

165-172,  174-176,  180-186 

Minot,  Laurence 47 

Minstrel,  or  g:leenian 47 

Miracle-Plays 130-122 

Mitford,  Wm 278 

Moore,  Thos 279,  386,  389 

Moral-Plays 122 

More,  Henry 164 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  b.  in  London,  1478; 
entered  Oxford  in  1497,  where  he 
studied  Greek;  studied  law  at  Lin- 
coln's Inn ;  an  under-sheriff  of  London, 
1502;  M.  P.,  1501;  Hist,  of  Rich.  IIL, 
1513;  sent  on  a  mission  to  Flanders, 
1514;  Utopia,  1518;  treasurer  of  the 
exchequer,  1521 ;  Speaker  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  1523;  Lord  Chancellor, 
1529;  beheaded  July  6,  1535,  for  re- 
fusing to  take  the  oath  of  supremacy 
to  Henry  VIH.  "  See  me  safe  up," 
ne  saia  to  one  neiping  mm  up  the 
scaflfold,  "  for  my  coming  down  I  can 


shift  for  myself."  As  the  axe  was 
about  to  fall,  he  moved  aside  his  beard, 
saying,  "  Pity  that  should  be  cut  that 
has  not  committed  treason" 73,  7'^. 

Morris,  William,  b.  1834;  Life  and 
Death  of  Jason,  1865;  The  Earthly 
Paradise,  1868;  a  translation  of  The 
^neid,  1876 421-8 

Motley,  John  Liothrop,  biography 
and  works,  see  text 351 

Napier,  Sir  Wm.,  b.  at  Castletown, 
Ireland,  1785;  entered  the  army,  1800; 
captain,  1804;  went  with  Sir  John 
Moore  to  Portugal,  1808;  was  in  the 
great  battles  of  the  Peninsular  War; 
major,  1811;  lieutenant-colonel,  1813; 
pubhshed  History  of  the  War  in  the 
Peninsula,  1828-40;  colonel,  1830; 
major-general,  1841;  knighted,  1848; 
Lieutenant-general,  1851 ;  published 
other  works;  d.  1860 279 

Nevile,  Henry 202 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  b.  at  Woolsthorpe, 
1642;  entered  Trinity,  Cambridge;  dis- 
covered the  binomial  theorem,  1664, 
and  the  theory  of  fluxions,  1665;  con- 
structed a  refracting  telescope,  1668; 
professor  of  mathematics,  1669;  dis- 
covered that  hght  consists  of  rays  of 
different  refrangibility,  about  1669; 
lectured  on  optics,  1669-71;  author  of 
the  Emission  theory  of  light;  fellow 
of  Royal  Society,  1672;  Picard  having 
accurately  measured  an  arc  of  the 
earth's  surface,  Newton  resumed, 
1684,  a  work  respecting  universal 
gravitation,  laid  aside  16  years  before 
because  of  incorrect  data  concerning 
the  size  of  the  earth ;  he  was  so  agitated 
by  the  proof  that  the  orbit  of  the  moon 
is  curved  by  the  force  which  causes 
the  fall  of  an  apple,  working  accord- 
ing to  the  same  law,  that  he  was 
obliged,  it  is  said,  to  call  in  a  friend  to 
finish  the  calculation ;  Principia,  1687; 
M.P.  for  Cambridge,  1689,  and  again, 
1703;  a  story,  discredited  by  his  biog- 
rapher, Brewster,  is  told,  that  in  1692 
his  doff  Diamond  UDset  a  burning 
candle  among  tiis  papers,  destroying 
the  work  of  20  years;  made  master  ot 


474 


Index,  BiograpMcal  and  Topical.] 


the  mint,  1699;   President  of   Royal 
Society,    1703-27;     knighted   in    1705; 

d.  1729 201 

Newman,  John  Henry,  b.  in  London, 
1801;  entered  Oxford,  1816;  fellow  of 
Oriel  College,  1822;  ordained,  1824; 
vicar  of  St.  Mary's,  Oxford,  and  of  Lit- 
tlemore,  1828;  with  Keble  and  Pusey 
started  the  "  Tractarian  movement," 
in  favor  of  High  Church  doctrines, 
1833;  became  a  member  of  the  R.  C. 
Church,  1845;  Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua, 
1864;  Grammar  of  Assent,  1870;  reply 
to  Gladstone  on  the  Vatican  Decrees, 
1875;      has     published    many    other 

works 280,  289-90 

Nicholas  of  Guilford 47 

Norton 124 

Occleve,  b.  about  1370;  a  lawyer  and  a 

poet 76 

Oldham,  John 193 

Opie,  Mrs 269 

Ormin 39,  40 

Otway,  Thomas  195 

Paley,  Wm 279 

Palgrave,  Sir  Francis 278 

Paris,  Matthew,  b.  about  1195;  a 
Benedictine  monk,  1217;  sent  to  Nor- 
way in  1248  as  visitor  of  his  Order;  d. 

1259  48 

Parnell,  Thomas  211 

Pecock,  Reginald,  b.  1390;  studied  at 
Oxford;  priest,  1421;  Bishop  of  St. 
Asaph,  1444;  Bishop  of  Chichester. 
1449;  his  book  against  the  Lollards 
offended  the  clergy ;  was  expelled 
from  the  Council  at  Westminster, 
1457;  books  burnt;  was  deprived  of  his 

see;  d.  1460 70 

Peele 126 

Pepys,  Samuel,  b.  1633;  educated  at 
Cambridge;  clerk  of  the  acts  of  the 
Navy,  1660-73;  secretary  for  the  affairs 
of  the  Navy,  1673-9;  secretary  to  the 
admiralty;  President  of  the  Royal  So- 
ciety, 1684-86;  imprisoned,  1679,  for  al- 
leged complicity  in  the  Popish  plot,  and 
afterwards  as  a  Jacobite ;  kept  a  diary 
in  short-hand,  1660-9,  full  of  court  and 
other  gossip;  Diary  deciphered,  1825; 
<i.ir03 204 


Periods  of  English  Literature 12 

Petty,  Sir  William 203 

Pope,  Alexander,  b.  at  London,  1688; 
sickly  and  somewhat  deformed ;  edu- 
cation scanty  and  desultory;  in  1717, 
bought  the  villa  of  Twickenham  with 
the  subscription  raised  by  Swift  for 
his  translation  of  Homer;  intimate 
with  the  great  literary  men  and 
statesmen  of  his  time,  with  most 
of  whom  he  quarrelled;  writings  de- 
scribed  and  their  dates  given  in  the 

text ;  d.  1744 208-210,  212-218 

Prescott,  William  H.,  biography  and 

works,  see  text 350-1 

Prynne,  William,  b.  in  Somersetshire, 
1600;  graduated  at  Oxford,  1620; 
studied  law ;  for  his  Player'' s  Scourge 
the  Star  Chamber  fined  him  £5000, 
degraded  him  from  the  bar,  cut  off  his 
ears,  burned  his  book,  and  imprisoned 
him  for  life ;  for  his  News  from  Ipswich, 
1637,  part  of  the  punishment  was  re- 
peated, and  S.  L.  (Seditious  Libeller) 
burned  into  his  cheeks;  released,  1C41; 
awarded  damages;  elected  to  the 
Long  Parliament;  ejected  by  Pride's 
Purge;  attacked  Cromwell  and  the 
army  in  his  writings;  again  impri- 
soned ;  released ;  d.  1669 152 

Purchas 100 

Puttenham 97 

Quarles,  Francis 164 

Questions  to  be  asked 15-18 

Kadcliflfe,   Mrs 229 

Kaleigli,  Sir  Walter,  b.  at  Hayes, 
Devonshire,  1552;  educated  at  Oxford; 
served  under  Sir  John  Norris,  and  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  in  the  Netherlands, 
1576-9;  aided  in  suppressing  the  Earl 
of  Desmond's  rebellion  in  Ireland; 
obtained  from  Elizabeth  a  patent  for 
discoveries  and  colonization  in  North 
America;  sent  out  an  expedition  under 
Amidas  and  Barlow,  1584;  knighted, 
1585;  M.P.  for  Devonshire;  sent  to  Vir- 
ginia seven  vessels  and  108  colonists 
under  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  who 
brought  back  tobacco  and  the  potato; 
two  vessels  imder  Captain  White,  1587, 
who  founded   Raleigh;    imprisoned, 


Index^  Biographical  and  Topical. 


475 


1592,  for  secretly  marrying  Elizabeth 
Throgmorton,  one  of  the  maids  of 
honor;  sailed  with  5  vessels,  1595, 
explored  the  coasts  of  Guiana,  and 
ascended  the  Orinoco ;  readmitted  at 
Court,  1597;  lost  favor  on  the  accession 
of  James;  accused  of  conspiring  to 
raise  Lady  Arabella  Stuart  to  the 
throne;  condemned  to  death,  1603; 
kept  13  years  in  the  Tower,  where  he 
wrote  his  History  of  the  World;  re- 
leased, and  sailed,  1617,  with  14  ships 
to  discover  the  promised  El  Dorado 
in  Guiana ;  lost  several  vessels  and  his 
son,  and  retiu'ned  unsuccessful;  im- 
prisoned on  the  complaint  of  the 
Spanish  Ambassador,  Gondomar,  con- 
cerning his  conduct  in  Guiana;  liis 
judges  deciding  his  former  sentence 
of  death  valid,  he  was  put  to  death 

Oct.  29, 1618 99 

Bamsay,  Allan 249 

Requisites  for  the  Study  of  £ng^lisli 

'  Liiterature 13 

Richardson,  Samuel 228 

Richard  Rolle  of  Hampole,  b.  at 
Thornton  about  1290;  went  to  Oxford; 

became  a  monk;  d.  1349 40 

Robert  of   Brunne 40 

Robert  of  Gloucester 44 

Robertson,  Frederick 280 

Rogers,  Samuel,  b.  at  Stoke  Newing- 
ton,  1763;  became  a  clerk  arid  partner 
in  his  father's  banking  house ;  Pleas- 
ures of  Memory,  1793;  Epistle  to  a 
Friend,  1798;  Human  Life,  1819;  Italy, 
1822;  house  a  resort  of  eminent  lit- 
erary men  and  poHticians;  d.l855. .  .386 
Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  b.  in  Lon- 
don, 1828;  a  painter  and  poet;  Poems, 
1870;  Tlie  Early  Italian  Poets,  1873;  d. 

1882 421 

Royal  Society 201 

Roy,  William 74 

Ruskin,  John,  b.  in  London,  1819;  ed- 
ucated at  Oxford;  studied  drawing 
with  Copley;  admired  Turner;  Modem 
Painters,  1843-1860:  Seven  Lamps  of 
Architecture,  1849;  The  Stones  of 
Venice,  1851-53 ;  Lectures  on  Architec- 
ture and  Painting,  1854;  essays  fol- 


lowed; Slade  Professor  of  Art  at  Ox- 
ford, 1869 308 

Sackville,  b.  at  Buckhurst,  Sussex,  1R27; 
went  to  Oxford  and  thence  to  Cam- 
bridge; M.P.  at  the  age  of  21;  created 
Lord  Buckhurst,  1566;  minister  to 
France,  1570;  sent  to  the  Netherlands 
to  inquire  into  the  difficulty  between 
the  States  and  Leicester,  1587;  im- 
prisoned because  of  a  report  unfavor- 
able to  L. ;  succeeded  Lord  Burleigh 
as  Lord  Treasurer,  1598;  died  at  the 
Council-board  of  James  I.,  1608. 

92,124 

Sandys 153 

Schemes  for  Review 

35,  68,  90,  150,  186,  224,  267,  461 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  b.  in  Edinburgh, 
1771 ;  at  18  months  of  age  a  fever 
left  him  incurably  lame ;  entered  the 
U.  of  Ed.,  1783,  but  was  not  a  faithful 
student,  a  fact  which  he  afterward  de- 
plored; apprenticed  to  the  law,  1786; 
began  the  study  of  German,  1792;  pub- 
lished two  vols,  of  the  Minstrelsy  of 
the  Scottish  Border,  1802;  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel,  1805;  Marmion,  1808; 
Ijxdy  of  the  Lake,  1810;  Vision  of 
Don  Roderick,  1811;  Rokeby,  1813; 
Waverly,  his  first  novel,  1814;  was 
knighted  in  1820;  the  best  of  the  nov- 
els before  1826;  this  year  the  pub- 
lishing firm  of  the  Ballantynes,  in 
which  he  was  a  partner,  failed,  as 
did  Constable  &  Co.,  with  which  it 
was  connected;  wife  died  same  year; 
Scott  sat  down  to  write  off  a  debt  of 
£117,000;  accomplished  it,  and  Ab- 
botsford  was  saved  to  his  heirs;  had 
several  paralytic  attacks;  travelled  on 
thecontinent;  returned;  d.  1832. 

269-77,  384-5 

Shakespeare,  b.  at  Stratford-on-Avon, 
Warwickshire,  1564;  the  third  of  eight 
(Betterton  says  ten)  children;  Mary 
Arden,  his  mother,  was  daughter  of 
Robert  Arden,  gentleman,  and  John 
Shakespeare,  his  father,  was  son  of  a 
tenant  of  said  Arden ;  of  piu-e  Saxon 
blood  on  both  sides,  R.  G.  White 
saye;  fairly   educated  in  the  Gram- 


476 


Index^  Biographical  and  Topical. 


mar  School  of  Stratford;  in  Lon- 
don, 1585;  worked  at  first  with  Mar- 
lowe, Greene,  and  Peele  upon  old 
plays;  with  his  savings  bought  shares 
in  the  Black  Friars'  Theatre,  and  af- 
terwards in  tlie  Globe  Theatre,  built  in 
1594;  invested  also  in  the  tithes  of 
Stratford,  and  in  the  "New  Place" 
there,  built  by  the  Cloptons;  fre- 
quented the  best  society  of  London ; 
procured  a  coat  of  arms  for  his 
father  in  1599,  and  so  became  gentle- 
man by  descent;  retired  to  "  New 
Place"  about  1611,  on  an  income  of 
what  would  be  now  $10,000  a  year;  d. 
1616,  on  the  day  he  became  52,  if  born 
April  23d.  Oldest  daughter,  Susanna, 
wife  of  Dr.  Hall,  left  a  daughter  who 
died  without  children ;  Shakespeare's 
son,  Hanmet,  a  twin  with  Judith,  died 
at  the  age  of  12,  and  the  three  chil- 
dren of  Judith,  wife  of  Thos.  Quiney, 

died  unmarried 132-137. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  b.  at  Filed 
Place,  1792;  educated  at  Eton  and 
Oxford;  expelled  from  Oxford,  1811, 
on  account  of  his  tract  The  Necessity 
of  Atheism ;  married  a  Miss  Westbrook 
same  year;  Queen  Mab,  1813;  separ- 
ated from  his  v.ife,  1814;  married 
Mary  Godwin,  1816;  Alastor,  same 
year;  deprived  of  the  custody  of  his 
children  because  of  his  religious  opin- 
ions, 1817;  left  England  for  Italy,  1818; 
Cenci  and  Prometheus  Unbound.  1819; 
Adonais,  1821;  going  from  Leghorn  to 
Lorici  the  boat  was  upset  in  a  squall, 
and  two  weeks  afterward  his  body 
drifted  ashore  and  was  burned  by 
Byron  »'-.;l  Leigh  Hunt,  1822. .  .399-405 

SL-liStone,  William 244 

Sheridan,  Kichard  Brinsley,  b.  in 
Dublin,  1751;  educated  at  Harrow; 
studied  law  but  was  not  admitted  to 
the  bar;  produced  The  Rivals  and  The 
Duenna,  1775;  The  School  for  Scan- 
dal, 1777;  The  Critic,  1779;  M.P.,  1780; 
Sec.  of  Treasury,  1783;  won  great  rep- 
utation as  an  orator  in  the  impeach- 
ment of  Hastings;   treasurer  of  the 


navy,  1806;  lost  heavily  by  the  burn- 
ing of  the  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  1809; 
became  intemperate  and  extravagant 

and  poor;  d.  1816 235 

Sherlock 201 

Shirley 149 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  b.  at  Pfenshvirst, 
1544;  son  of  Sir  Henry  Sydney,  and 
nephew  of  Earl  of  Leicester;  entered 
Oxford,  1568  or  69;  a  favorite  of  Eliza- 
beth's, and  sent  by  her  on  a  mission 
to  Vienna  in  1577;  knighted,  1583, 
and  married  a  daughter  of  Sir  Fran- 
cis Walsingham;  went,  as  Governor 
of  Flushing,  to  aid  the  Dutch  against 
Spain ;  mortally  wounded  at  Zutphen, 
Sept.,  1586;  without  tasting  it  he  gave 
the  water  brought  him  to  a  dying  sol- 
dier, saying,  "  Thy  necessity  is  greater 
than  miue."  Possessed  rare  accom- 
plishments, was  a  gentleman,  a  soldier, 
and  an  author;  and,  according  to 
William  of  Orange,  one  of  the  ripest 
and  greatest  councillors  of  state  in 

that  day  in  Europe 96,  97,  100-102 

Skelton,  b.  1460;  studied  at  Cambridge ; 
took  holy  orders;  was  tutor  to  Duke 
of   York,    afterwards    Henry   VIII.; 

poet-laureate,  1529 87,  88 

Smith,  Capt.  John 326-8 

Smith,  Adam,  b.  at  Kirkaldy,  Scot- 
land, 1723;  at  the  University  of  Ed., 
1737-40,  and  afterward  at  Oxford;  call- 
ed to  the  chair  of  logic  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Glasgow,  1751,  and  to  the  chair 
of  moral  philosophy,  1752;  published 
Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments,  1759; 
resigned  his  chair  in  1763;  on  the  con- 
tinent two  or  three  years :  returned  to 
Kirkaldy,  1766,  where  he  spent  ten 
years  on  his  Inquiry  into  the  Nature 
and  Causes  of  the  Wealth  of  Nations: 
one  of  the  commissioners  of  customs 

for  Scotland  in  1778;  d.  1790 240-1 

Smollett 229 

Somerville,  Wm 346 

South,  Robert 201 

Southey 279 

Southey,  Boht.,  b.  at  Bristol,  1774;  ed- 
ucated at  Westminster  School  and  at 


Index^  Biographical  and  Topical. 


477 


Oxford;  lived  at  Greta  Hall,  near  Kes- 
wick, 1803-1843;  wrote  many  prose 
works;  Joan  of  Arc,  1796;  TJialaba, 
1802;  Madoc,  1805;  Curse  of  Kehama, 
1810;  made  poet-lam*eate,  1813;  Rod- 
erick,  1814;    A   Vision  of  Judgment, 

1821;  d.  1843 367 

Soathwell,  B,  at  Horsham,  1560;  edu- 
cated at  Douay,  France;  rector  of 
the  English  Jesuit  College,  Rome, 
1585;  missionary  to  England,  1586; 
thrown  into  the  Tower,  1592,  on 
charge  of  complicity  in  a  plot  against 
Elizabeth ;  ten  times  subjected  to  tor- 
ture; condemned  to  death  for  refus- 
ing the  oath  of  supremacy;  hanged, 

drawn,  and  quartered,  1595 116 

Spenser,  £dinund,  b.  in  London,  1552; 
entered  Cambridge  as  sizar  (one  se- 
curing his  board  and  tuition  free), 
1569;  made  A.M.,  1576;  Uved  in  the 
North  of  England;  secretary  to  Lord 
Grey  de  Wilton,  Viceroy  of  Ireland, 
1580;  received  3,028  acres  of  land,  in- 
cluding the  castle  and  manor  of  Kil- 
colman,  from  the  forfeited  estate  of 
the  Earl  of  Desmond;  first  tliree 
books  of  Fairie  Queen  in  1590;  a  pen- 
sion of  £50  from  the  queen ;  second 
three,  1596;  sheriff  of  the  County  of 
Cork,  1598;  house  burned  down  and 
one  child  perished,  in  the  Earl  of  Ty- 
rone's   rebellion,  1598;   d.,  destitute, 

1599 107-115 

Stanley,  Dean  279 

Steele,  Richard 219 

Sterne,  I^awrence 229 

Stow 95 

Stubbs,  Professor 278 

Suckling,  Sir  John 162 

Surrey,  Earl  of,  b.  1515;  was  a  scholar, 
courtier,  and  soldier;  accompanied 
Henry  VHI.  to  France  in  1544;  was 
Governor  of  Boulogne  after  its  cap- 
ture; was  recalled  in  1546;  arrested 

and  executed,  1547 88,  89 

Swift,  Jonathan,  b.  in  Dublin  in  1667; 
sent  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  by  his 
uncle,  1682;  became  secretary  to  his 
distant  relative.  Sir  Wm.Temple,about 


1688;  went  to  Ireland,  1694,  and  became 
prebendary  of  Kilroot,  but  returned 
to  Temple  next  year;  at  Temple's 
death,  1699,  made  vicar  of  Laracor 
and  Rathbeggan  in  Ireland;  Tale  of  a 
Tub,  in  1704;  went  over  to  the  Tories, 
1708;  intimate  with  the  Tory  leaders; 
wrote  nmnberless  political  pamphlets ; 
would  have  received  a  bishopric  but 
for  the  Tale  of  a  Tub;  Dean  of  St. 
Patrick's,  1713;  Gulliver's  Travels,172e; 
wrote  in  behalf  of  the  Irish;  d.  insane 
and  idiotic,  1745 218-9 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles,  b. 
near  Henlej'-on-Thames,  1837;  Ata- 
lanta  in  Calydon,  18&4;  Chastelard, 
1865;  Poems  and  Ballads,  1866;  Both- 
well,  a  tragedy,  1874 393 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  b.  at  Cambridge, 
1613;  rectory  sequestered  by  Parlia- 
ment, 1642;  taught  school  in  Wales; 
Liberty  of  Prophesying,  1647;  Holy 
Living  and  Dying,  1650;  several  times 
imprisoned  for  uttering  royalist  opin- 
ions; lived  in  Ireland.  1658;  married  a 
natural  daughter  of  Charles  I.,  for  his 
second  wife;  made  Bishop  of  Down 
and  Connor  and  of  Dromore  by  Charles 
n. ;  d.  in  Ireland,  1667 153,  156-159 

Temple,  Sir  Wm.,  b.*  in  London  in 
1628;  studied  at  Cambridge;  travelled 
on  the  Continent,  1647-54;  a  baronet  in 
1666;  negotiated  the  triple  alliance  be- 
tween England,  Holland,  and  Sweden, 
against  Louis  XIV.,  1668;  dismissed 
from  office,  1671 ;  devised  a  plan  for  a 
new  privy  council  for  Charles  II.,  1679; 
declined  the  secretaryship  of  State; 
lived  in  retirement  at  Moor  Park  with 
Swift  for  secretary;  took  part  in  the 
great  discussion  concerning  Ancient 
and  Modern  Learning;  d.  1698 204 

Tennyson, Alfred,  b.at  Somersby,1809; 
educated  at  Cambridge;  a  vol.  of 
Poems,  1830;  another  vol.,  1833;  Locks- 
ley  Hall,  and  other  poems,  1842;  The 
Princess,  1847;  In  Memoriam,  a  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  his  friend,  Arthm* 

.  H.  Hallan,  1850;  Mated,  1854;  Idylls  of 
the  King,  1859;    Enoch  Arden,   1864; 


478  Index^  Biographical  and  Topical. 


Queen  May,  1875;  many  other  poems 
during  these  years  and  since.  Suc- 
ceeded Wordsworth  as  poet-laureate, 

1851 410-21 

Tickell 211 

Tillotson,  Arclibishop 201 

Thackeray,  Wm.  Makepeace,  b.  in 
Calcutta,  1811;  educated  at  Cambridge; 
became  an  artist;  adopted  literature; 
The  Paris  Sketch-Book,  and  The  Great 
Haggarty  Diamond, about  18i0  ;Vanity 
i^air  appeared  1846;  Pendennis,  1849- 
50,  and  the  other  novels  followed; 
visited  the  U.  S.,  1852,  and  repeated 
his  Lectures  on  the  Eng.  Humorists; 
came  again,  1856,  and  gave  those  on 
the  Four  Georges;  Editor  of  the  Corn- 
hill  Mag.,  1860;  d.  1863 278,  282-86 

Theatre,  The 124_5 

The  Novel  228 

The  Text-Book 13-15 

Thomson,  James,  b.  in  Roxburgshire, 
Scotland,  1700;  studied  theology  in 
Edinburgh ;  renounced  it  for  literary 
pursuits;  published  the  Seasons,  in  the 
order  of  Winter,  Summer,  Spring,  and 
Autumn,  1726-30;  had  a  pension  of 
£100  from  the  Prince  of  Wales;  sur- 
veyor of  Leeward  Isles,  £300  a  year; 

d.  1748 212,244 

Udal,  Nicholas 124 

Vaughan,  Henry 164 

Walton,  Isaac  153 

Walton,  Sir  Henry,  b.  in  Kent,  1568; 
educated  at  Oxford;  abroad  nine 
years;  secretary  to  Earl  of  Essex; 
fled  on  his  arrest  in  1601 ;  sent,  1604, 
as  ambassador  to  Venice;  on  missions 

to  other  foreign  courts;  d.  1639 119 

Walsingham,  Thomas .70 

Warner,  William 118 

Warton,  Thomas 242 

Webbe 97 


Webster,  John 148 

Whittier,  John    Greenleaf,  biogra- 
phy and  works,  see  text. . . .  446,  458-60 
William  of  Malmesbury,  b.  about 
1095;  went  early  into  the  monastery  at 
Malmesbury,  whence  his  name ;  made 

librarian  there;  d.  about  1143 40 

William  of  Shoreham 40 

Wilson,  Professor 308 

Wilson,  Thomas 89 

Wither,  George 163 

Wordsworth,  Wm.,  b.  at  Cocker- 
mouth,  1770;  went  to  school  at  Hawks- 
head;  at  Cambridge,  1787-91;  visited 
France;  driven  home  by  the  Reign  of 
Terror;  a  volume  of  poems,  1793;  had 
a  legacy  of  £900, 1795;  married  Mary 
Hutchinson,  1802,  and  inhericed  £1800 
from  his  father's  estate;  The  Prelude 
was  finished  1805;  two  volumes  of 
poems,  1807;  moved  with  his  family  to 
Rydal  Mount,  on  Lake  Windermere, 
1813;  distributor  of  stamps,  1813;  a 
pension  of  £300  a  year  in  1842;  poet- 
laureate,  1843;  d.  1850 369-84 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas,  b.  1503;  took  the 
degree  of  M.A.  at  Cambridge,  1520; 
was  knighted,  1536;  sent  on  missions 
to   Spain   and   the    Netherlands;    d. 

1542 88,89 

Wycherly 195 

Wyclif,  b.  in  Yorkshire  about  1324; 
master  of  Balliol  College,  Oxford, 
1361;  received  a  living  in  Lincolnshire; 
made  D.D. ;  cited  as  a  heretic  to  meet 
his  judges  at  St.  Paul's,  1376;  with  his 
fellow- workers  completed  his  transla- 
tion of  the  Bible,  1380;  wrote  against 
transubstantiation,  1381 ;  summoned  to 
Rome  in  1384,  but  did  not  go;  d.  Jan. 

31,  1384 ...49,50 

Young,  Edward gn 


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